by Meghan March
That could have been way worse, I tell myself as I reach down to grab the broken pieces of glass.
With my slight buzz from the champagne, I misjudge and the jagged edge of half the bottle slashes diagonally across my left palm.
“Fuck!”
Blood drips from my skin, and it stings like a son of a bitch. I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and squeeze my hand shut around it to staunch the bleeding as I crouch down to root around under the sink for the first aid kit. I know there’s one in here somewhere. My father’s motto is Always be prepared, which makes sense because he was an Eagle Scout. Another tradition he wanted to pass along to a son he was never blessed with.
I find the first aid kit and grab a roll of gauze and some tape. Apparently always being prepared doesn’t include palm-sized bandages in the kit. I lift the paper towel off the slice and wince, although it’s not as bad as it first seemed. It definitely hurts, but it doesn’t look like it’s deep enough to need stitches.
Thank the Lord, because the feel of sutures tugging at my skin while a doctor sews me up, even if I’m numb, creeps me the hell out.
I wrap the roll of gauze around my hand and cover it with tape to hold it in place. The broken bottle I’ll deal with tomorrow when I’m totally sober. I grab my purse and stalk out of my office, ready to be collected.
Keira
It’s not until I’m hooded in the backseat of the car driven by Scar that my purse begins buzzing. As soon as it does, my stomach drops at the memory of what Mount told me this morning.
“This better be in your pussy when you’re delivered to me.”
The incident with the champagne bottle, and field dressing the resulting wound, totally made me forget why I walked into the bathroom to begin with. I have a feeling he won’t believe my story.
Shit. I consider my options as the car heads who knows where.
I can reach into my purse, blinded by the hood, and try to maneuver this thing into myself one-handed while Scar no doubt watches me in the rearview mirror. Or I can face Mount knowing I disobeyed a direct order and own up to it.
I’m tempted to flash my goods in the car. I really am. I reach into my purse with my uninjured hand and wrap it around the toy that’s continually pulsing and vibrating.
That asshole wants me writhing in the back of his driver’s car? Guaranteed he’s expecting me to be on the brink when I’m delivered. Maybe he thinks it’ll make me more compliant.
He doesn’t know me at all. That seals my decision—I’m not doing it. I won’t sacrifice my dignity to follow his order and shove a sex toy into myself while someone else is watching. Not happening.
The drive seems to take forever, but I think it’s the hood messing with me. Stealing my sense of sight screws with my head, which I’m sure Mount intends. Unless he’s just that secretive about where he lives that no one else can know. Which means he’s either a manipulative son of a bitch, a paranoid one, or both.
Before I can decide, Scar comes to a complete stop, and I recognize the sound of the car shifting into park before he kills the engine.
The driver’s door opens, and just like all the other times, mine is opened as well. I’m lifted into his arms, and this time, my purse comes with me.
I have to wonder about Scar’s daily workout routine if he carries me all over like I weigh nothing, which certainly isn’t the case. Tits and ass and drinking more than a little whiskey add extra pounds on a girl, but I couldn’t care less.
Magnolia’s words come back to me.
“You got tits, ass, and that gorgeous red hair that makes a man think he’s gonna find fire when he gets you under him . . . And what’s more, you’re totally and completely oblivious to it.”
As I’m carried up, down, and all over hell and back, I realize Mount said something similar.
“You’re totally fucking clueless about what men think when they look at you. Except today. Today, you felt it.”
It’s true that I don’t spend an inordinate amount of time staring at my reflection in a mirror. Mostly because I’m too damn busy working. I never got into the whole selfies and social media thing, and don’t take them unless someone forces me into a picture for some work-related reason.
I didn’t place much stock in what Magnolia said. I know my friend wouldn’t lie to me, but she saw me through the lens of friendship, and that adds beauty you may not otherwise see to a person.
But what Mount said earlier today? That got through to me. Normally, I was clueless. I didn’t expect or notice stares from men. That was more Jury’s territory. Or even Imogen, with her perfect features and undeniably classic beauty.
I was the one following my dad to work, learning about the variations in flavors we could create by aging the whiskey in different kinds of barrels, or which grain suppliers were preferable and why.
Except today . . . today, Mount was right. I felt every stare as those men basically conducted our entire business meeting with my nipples instead of my eyes. It was humiliating, not gratifying.
Another sin to lay at his feet. Which is probably where he’ll crush me tonight when he learns I didn’t follow his orders.
My musings are cut short when I’m placed on my stilettos, and the sound of a door shutting and locking invades my brain. Like last time, I rip the hood off my head and am poised to attack as I absorb my surroundings. It’s like wondering if you’re going to be left in a room with a ravenous tiger or a meek housecat.
The analogy holds way too much truth for me to contemplate as I swivel and take in the same sitting room I left this morning. It looks the same, minus the silver-dome-covered trays that I left untouched. I barely touched my lunch either, except for the whiskey.
Both of those things explain why that champagne went to my head even faster than normal.
I walk into the bedroom, again on guard, waiting and wondering from which direction Mount is going to pounce, but a search of each room turns up nothing.
He may be watching me, but he’s not doing it from inside this room. When I set my purse down on the nightstand, I’m reminded of the toy inside it rather than inside me, where it’s supposed to be.
I have a decision to make. Comply or rebel.
Magnolia’s advice was not to let him walk all over me. Right now, my hand aches like a bitch, and the last thing I want to do is touch that thing. So, screw it. What’s the worst he can do to me?
Actually, I don’t want to know the answer to that question.
Still, so far, all I’ve been subjected to is the loss of my freedom, which royally pisses me off, but he hasn’t caused me any physical harm. I’ve even had a couple of orgasms.
Maybe I can go toe-to-toe with Mount and come out unscathed.
It doesn’t take long before I realize I’m dead wrong.
Keira
There’s one thing hanging in the massive walk-in closet, a black silk dress with a deep V that looks like it’ll barely cover my boobs. Slits run up both sides to the hip. I look around for matching lingerie, but there’s nothing. I check every drawer in the center island, but they’re all empty. So, basically, he expects me to look like a classy slut for dinner. Great.
Something gold catches my eye as it dangles from the hanger of the dress. A gold chain with a single charm in the shape of a tiny, delicate lock. A symbol of my captivity? Like I need the reminder.
When I pull the dress from the hanger, a note floats to the floor, and I reach down to pick it up.
* * *
Change immediately.
Keep your pussy full.
* * *
The arrogance of his voice rings through my head as I read his scrawled words.
Go fuck yourself is the first thought that follows. Right now, I’m nursing my hand and a buzz, and I’m not willing to fall into line like everyone else in Mount’s life. Maybe it’s the champagne making me bold, but I like to think it’s not, because I’m definitely not drunk. If I were drunk, I’d be numb from the pain.
A
nd not just the pain in my hand. Temperance telling me what Brett tried to get her to do shredded me.
My eyes sting with tears as I lean against the center island to hold myself up. I’m tempted to crumple in the closet and give in to them. Only one thing stops me. Or I should say one man.
“Are you incapable of following simple directions? Because I thought you were smarter than that.”
I jerk my head up to see Mount standing in the doorway that leads to the bathroom, once again making one of his stupid silent entrances.
“How do you do that? And why?” Frustrated, I let out a huff. “You know what? Don’t answer. I don’t care. Tonight, I’m not in the mood to deal with your brand of arrogant bullshit. I am fresh out of fucks to give.”
With each word I speak, his expression darkens with malevolence, telling me I’ve crossed into dangerous territory.
“What did you fucking say to me?”
Fight or die trying. Isn’t that what I vowed to do?
“I said, I’m not in the mood.”
He takes a step into the closet and shuts the door behind him. I don’t know if it’s a power play or what, but instantly the room seems to shrink to a tenth of its size.
“Say it again,” he orders.
I stand straight and meet his black glare. “I’m not in the fucking mood to deal with another asshole tonight. Okay?” I throw my hands into the air like I’m completely at a loss of how to deal with him. Which I truly am.
Mount’s expression transforms from anger to rage in the space of a single heartbeat, and his voice drops to a low, raspy whisper. “Who fucking touched you? Heads will roll, and I’ll swing the goddamned ax myself.”
Before I know what’s happening, he reaches out with lightning speed and his hand cuffs the wrist of my injured palm.
I’m struggling to keep up with his threats and movements, and definitely regretting the champagne. “What? No one. Well, no one other than you. And I guess Scar when he carries me around like I’m incapable of walking.”
“Then what the fuck is this?” He jerks my hand between us, staring down at the gauze and tape.
“Nothing,” I say, my voice shaking even though I fight the tremor.
I watch him while he stares at the evidence of my first-aid skills before lifting his gaze to mine. Assessing. Calculating. Judging.
He releases my wrist as quickly as he grabbed it. “Bend over and show me your cunt.”
My mouth drops open at his rapid change.
“Now.” The word echoes in the closet.
I’ve never been given a more implacable order in my life, and I’ve also never quite regretted a decision so much as I do the one I made only minutes ago when I decided not to reinsert the toy.
Determined, I swallow my fear. I was willing to accept my punishment only minutes ago, and I’m not going to lose my nerve now.
Giving him my back, I bend over, lifting my skirt at the same time. It takes him less than a second to see what’s missing.
“I gave you an order, a simple fucking order, and you won’t even comply with that.” He yanks down my skirt. “Stand up.”
I do and spin around to face him, not trusting him at my back. “I’m sorry slashing my hand open while I was on my way to follow your damn orders stopped me from playing your little fucking games with my life!”
His expression goes blank as he grabs my wrist again, holding it palm out. “You said it was nothing.”
“To you, it’s not. That would probably take a severed limb. Or maybe decapitation?”
He drags me by the wrist as he yanks open the closet door and pulls me into the bathroom. He doesn’t release me as he digs through the drawers.
“Let go.” I jerk my hand, but his grip is like a shackle.
“Not until I see if you’re lying to me.”
Mount finally produces what look like nail scissors and cuts through the tape and gauze on the back side of my hand. He then peels the bandage free before flipping my hand palm-side up.
His nostrils flare as he surveys the cut, and I have no idea what to expect from him when his dark gaze meets mine.
“How did this happen? No bullshit, Keira. I want the truth.”
Saliva pools in my mouth and I swallow it before I explain. “I knocked over the champagne bottle my assistant brought to celebrate our new contract, and it broke on the bathroom floor. When I went to pick it up, I sliced myself on the edge.”
His grip on my wrist loosens, and he tilts my hand from side to side in the light. “It doesn’t need stitches.”
I open my mouth to tell him I already know that, but snap it shut when he runs the pad of his thumb along the same angle as the cut, but a half inch away, careful not to touch it.
“It might leave a scar, though.”
I feel his touch like it’s bathed in fire, leaving a scorching trail in its wake. My fingers curl inward instinctively, but he stops the motion by covering them with his own.
“Don’t. You’ll start the bleeding again. Hold still.”
When he releases my wrist, I’m confused enough to actually obey. He crouches down and pulls a first aid kit from beneath the sink.
“Just like my father. Always prepared.” The words pop out of their own volition.
Mount rises slowly, his dark gaze pinning me in place. “Don’t assume I’m anything like your father. You couldn’t be any more wrong if you tried.”
As he pulls something from the first aid kit, my response flies from my lips. “You’re right. My father is a good man, and as far as I can tell, there’s not a damn good thing about you.”
“Now you’re catching on,” he says, his wicked smirk intact.
And then something burns like actual fire along my cut, and I try to yank my wrist out of his grip. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he uses his free hand to fan the searing cut.
“What the hell did you do to me?”
“Calm down. It’s liquid Band-Aid. It’s more effective on your palm than your hack job with the gauze and tape. It’ll stop burning in a second.” He continues directing air toward the cut to soothe the pain.
“You could’ve warned me! That shit hurts!”
Mount’s expression goes blank. “I’ve given you more warnings than I have anyone before. It doesn’t seem to be working, though, because you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. And if you think that hurts, you’ve never known real pain.”
He releases my wrist and replaces the first aid kit while the burning subsides to a manageable sting.
Do I thank him? I’m pondering the question when he rises to his full height, dwarfing me by nearly a foot, something I hadn’t noticed until we were forced into such close proximity.
“Get dressed. You’re making us late for dinner.” He strides from the bathroom, but doesn’t leave the bedroom before tossing his parting words over his shoulder. “And don’t forget the toy, or I’ll take it as a direct invitation to bend you over the dining room table and fuck your tight little cunt while they serve the first course.”
Keira
Shockingly, Mount pulls out my chair and pushes it in while I take my seat at the massive dining room table that looks like it could easily seat twenty people. His place setting is at the head, and I’ve been seated directly to his left.
I don’t make eye contact with him as I sit, because I swear the man can read my mind.
To my shame, his parting words made me wet enough that there was no need to search for lube to slide the toy back inside me where he demanded.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I should be disgusted and repulsed. Screaming for someone to let me out of this damn house—which I still haven’t gotten to see because Scar hooded me and carried me to dinner. But instead, all I can do is picture Mount grabbing a fistful of my hair and holding it tight while he bends me over the table and mounts me like his name suggests.
Again, what the hell is wrong with me?
There’s fucking with someone’s head, and th
en there’s what Mount is doing to me. I don’t think a name has been invented for it yet. I’m pretty sure it’s not Stockholm Syndrome, because I definitely hate him and would run in the opposite direction the second I got the chance, if there weren’t threats hanging over the heads of my friends and family like guillotine blades. Then there are the two warring parts of me—the one that wants what he threatens, and the one that rebels against every word of it.
“Do I need to check?” Mount’s deep voice whispers in my ear as he releases my chair.
Before I can respond, the toy buzzes to life and I jolt in my seat, giving him his answer.
“I didn’t think so.”
I want to slap that arrogant smirk off his face, but I can’t even imagine the consequences for that action. Thankfully, the vibrator stills before the first course is served. By the time I’ve finished spooning up my oyster soup in silence and it’s been cleared away, I know what I have to do.
“We need to talk terms.”
The efficient waitstaff serve the salad course before Mount responds. “The only terms to be discussed were those of your willing submission. You agreed. End of discussion.”
I drop my fork and the silver clanks against the delicate china plate. I’m too pissed to give proper thought to how strange it is that a man as brutal as Mount would surround himself with such finery.
“No. That’s not how negotiations work.”
He raises one dark eyebrow at my response, and I have to wonder if that’s an ability bestowed only upon arrogant men specifically for moments like this.
“Besides, this conversation is about the end of our bargain. I need to know exactly how long you’re going to keep me here, because you’re screwing with my life and my business.”
The smirk that tugs at the corners of his mouth is one I’m beginning to recognize, and it never precedes anything good for me. “So eager to repay your debt and be done with me?”