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Raizo breathes me in with his nose in the crook of my neck. “I’m so tempted to taste you for myself. I’m dying to know if your moans sound just like your mother’s. Will you scream on my cock, like she did?”
This time, I can’t hide the shudder. And I’m not too sure I can hold back the vomit much longer, either.
Before he can remark on it, someone knocks at the door. My savior, even if they don’t mean to be.
Raizo grumbles to himself, then peels his hands from my body and strolls over to the door. If he’s angry at being interrupted, I can’t tell. The man has a hell of a poker face.
A man speaks with him quietly. Raizo seems to agree to something, then gestures for the man to come inside the room.
“I must leave you for now, Clara.” He says it mournfully, like I’m going to be bothered by his absence. “Be good, and maybe we’ll get our special time together before this is all over.”
I’d really rather not.
But I nod. No smile, no promises, but at least an agreement to be on my best behavior. I need to touch up my makeup anyway—on principle, because being bitchslapped can definitely do a number to a woman’s contouring.
If I’m going to face demons, I want my war paint on.
Raizo leaves the room. His man doesn’t pay any attention to me, but he does brush his suit jacket aside so I can see the gun holstered underneath.
Point made. Point taken.
I sift through the random pots and bottles of makeup in the desk drawers, wondering if this is what these women put on for their job as the “entertainment.” In the reflection of the mirror, I catch a glimpse of New Guy taking one of the women to the loveseat. I don’t see what he does, but I do hear the distinct sound of a zipper coming down and a belt buckle unlatching.
And as she stands waiting for whatever he’s about to do to her, her eyes meet mine in the mirror.
The fact that she doesn’t actuallyseeme… just takes it, vacant and staring off into nothingness…
I almost think that’s the most terrifying threat I’ve ever received.
Be good…
Or becomethis.
34
DEMYEN
The pain wakes me up.
I should probably call the doctor, but I’m too stubborn for that. Even though the bandages I’m unwrapping and rewrapping around my torso are caked with an ugly shade of dried crimson blood.
I’m trying to figure out a method of tying the gauze that doesn’t make me want to carve out my own lungs when the door bursts open and Bambi storms in.
Not for the first time, it occurs to me that her name is completely fucking wrong for her. It says, “docile.” It says, “sweet.” The Bambi darkening my bedroom door is none of those things. Not by a long shot.
“I see you’re home.” She pointedly eyes the three empty bottles of random booze on my nightstand. “Where’s Clara?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Bullshit.”
I look up at her. She’s lucky she’s my lawyer and I need her. This is the kind of tone and attitude that gets larger men shot between the eyes. “It’s none of your business, Bam. And I don’t know why you think it is.”
She tilts her head to one side and dramatically pretends to think about it. “Hm, let me see. Because I care about her? And no matter what you say, you do, too.”
I choose to ignore that. “You knew the plan. From the very beginning.”
Bambi stares at me.
