Page 11 of Twisted Tate

“Maybe I’ve heard rumors,” I admit, giving him a crumb. “Everyone in our world has heard rumors about what some of the Council members do. Even your family.” I throw that back at him. It’s not like his family is a pillar of what is good and just. “That doesn’t mean I have specifics.”

“What was the deal with the car back at Velum?”

I go still before I can stop myself, and I know—I fucking know—he saw it.

“It was nothing.”

“Liar.” He says it almost gently, like he’s correcting a child. “You saw it and you panicked. Then you chose to leave with me instead of getting in that car.” He leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “Who was in the car?”

My hand moves toward my face. I catch it halfway and grip the arm of the chair instead, knuckles white. My whole body wants to curl in on itself, to make itself small, to disappear.

“No one.”

“Try again.”

“The driver for some friend of my father’s.” The lie scrapes my throat raw. “I didn’t feel like going to their event tonight. That’s all.”

“A friend of your father’s.” Tate repeats it slowly, tasting each word. “And does this man have a name?”

Even thinking his name makes my entire body tremble. I can’t stand the thought of Michael’s hands on me again, his breath in my ear, telling me how I need to punished while he—

I shove the thought away so hard my vision blurs.

“Please. I don’t know anything.”

Tate watches me for a long moment. I can see him filing it away, adding it to whatever profile he’s building of me in his head. He knows I’m lying. He knows there’s something I’m not telling him. And he’s patient enough to wait until I break.

“We’ll come back to that tomorrow,” he says finally, and the promise in his voice makes my skin crawl.

He downs the rest of his glass and rises from his seat. I realize how exhausted I am. The adrenaline from the club has long since crashed, and I’m running on fumes and whiskey.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” he says. “Down the hall, second door on the left. There’s a bathroom attached. There’s some spare clothes in the closet if you want to change.”

“Clothes?”

How much planning has he put into this?

“This place is stocked for guests.”

“Am I a guest?” I ask. “Or a prisoner?”

He considers the question. “Somewhere in between.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You haven’t asked to leave, and I haven’t declined your request.” He moves toward the hallway, then pauses. “But the doors are locked, the property is gated, there’s no cell signal for miles. So don’t bother trying to run. You won’t get far, and I’ll be annoyed when I have to come find you.”

I watch him disappear down the hall. A door closes somewhere in the cabin.

After a few minutes, I make myself move. The guest room is really nice. There is a king bed with white linens and a rustic comforter. I peek in the attached bathroom and find a rain shower with multiple shower heads and heated floors.

The closet has a robe and a few garments for men and women. I can’t help but wonder how many other women he has brought here. How many of them walked out?

I open one of the dresser drawers and find a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. I put them on. They are too big for me, but it’s better than sleeping in my dress, or naked.

I go to wash my face in the bathroom, watching myself in the mirror. My lipstick is gone, worn off hours ago. My mascara is smudged. I look like a woman who’s been through something, which I guess I have.

I sucked a stranger’s cock in a hallway tonight. That feels like it happened to a different person, a million years ago.