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27
Annie
Ahealthy breakfast. What an awful concept.
After the run, Cole honestly did everything he'd outlined. No consideration for what I'd been enduring or what I'd gone through the night before.
At one point he did say he knew that a first "encounter" like I'd had could be "wearying."
I hadn't thought a billionaire evil mastermind would also be a master of the obvious.
We got back to the compound on foot, running through the desert like idiots. That was followed by weights, and heavy bag work, and yoga, which bores me utterly and always has. Relaxing has never been my forte or my goal.
Despite that? The massage after was excellent, given by a man who was almost beautiful enough to make Cole seem plain. At the start I was afraid this was more of Cole's games, that the big man working on my muscles would suddenly cuff me to the massage table. I wasn't sure what would come next but a part of me was almost interested in finding out.
What came next though, was a shower and then breakfast.
"You need to eat that," Cole said.
I'd been shoving around all the parts of his complete breakfast for so long they were cold. When he said that, I jolted out of my thoughts and looked at him. "Have you heard anything more about my father, Sir?" It was frightening how fast the sir was being added to things. It was easier than being slapped and more direct than trying to game my way past it.
"Released yesterday to go home. Your mother has custody of him," he said.
I blinked. "Custody?" Then I looked at him and realized he'd made a joke. That thought was almost as surprising as the first strike of the crop had been. "Oh. Thank you." I didn't add ‘sir’. I was pushing my scrambled eggs into a pile to rest beside the strawberries and steamed kale or spinach or seaweed or whatever the green stuff was.
"Eat that." Cole was reviewing some kind of financial records on his tablet. He barely glanced at me or my plate.
I ate another bite of eggs. They were cold.
"Your father has a skilled nurse caring for him around the clock."
I looked up from the eggs. "Is that good or bad?"
A pointed look.
I added ‘sir’ and waited.
"He doesn't need to have it. It's simply easier for your mother."
I thought about the PD's insurance and my father's expenses and how we'd grown up. "Thank you, sir," I said, and that time I meant it.
He didn't bother to respond. He simply ordered me up and over his lap. Surprised, I squeaked at him in a way I'd never have let anyone hear on the job. "I didn't do anything!" Instantly biting off the protest because obviously I was his to do as he pleased with.
It was a nasty realization that the idea he owned me was also starting to creep into my consciousness, just like calling him sir.
"The food," he said. "You do as I tell you. There are reasons for some of what you're told. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain them to you."
He pulled me out of the chair by my arm, threw me across his lap and pulled off my running tights with three neat, economical motions. My hands flew to my behind, trying to protect it from any blows. I still hurt from the night before.
His voice was cold when he said, "If you don't want another session with the crop, I suggest you grab the chair legs and keep hold of them. Now."
It took all my willpower to release my own ass and move my hands away from their protective positioning, to grab hold of the legs of the chair he was sitting in and to hold on as the first swats began to rain down on me.
My father would be the first to admit that when I'm determined to do something, stopping me is next to impossible. For as close as we've become since I was the only one to follow in his footsteps, the fact of our similarities caused a lot of fights when I was growing up. We were both stubborn and determined.
Mark would have information on my father and have it now. Once it was obvious I was going undercover again, when no one knew I would end up here, the family had added Mark to the contacts list for medical information. He'd promised that if I called he'd give me the information and not try to hold the phone call to make it longer.
If he was home, it might be possible to talk to my father instead of Mark. Dad had a better idea of what a slipup might mean. He didn't know I was a narc but it was a good guess. He could have found out at any time exactly what my assignments were. My father had a lot of loyal friends and contacts still inside the job.
