He narrows his eyes. Studies me for a long, silent moment. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves the garden.
I collapse into the chair, still shivering, confused about everything that just happened. What was that? That kiss, and the way he shut down immediately afterward… The mood changing suddenly. His insistence to remind me where I am, that he’s in charge. Did that kiss mean something? Or was it just another way to taunt me?
On the ground at my feet is the sketchbook he gave me to draw in, forgotten. I pick it up and flip through the pages. My breath catches in my throat.
He’s amazing. Every page is more detailed than the last, all of it almost photorealistic in quality, the sketches accurate down to the tiniest detail.
But it’s when I reach the first page that I really pause. Tilt my head, and wonder…
It’s a drawing of the woman from the paintings. Lady Lochlan, the cook said. Farrow’s mother.
In his drawing she’s smiling, but there’s still something sad in her eyes. Something distant and afraid.
What happened to her? I can’t help but wonder, as I set the notebook aside and set about cleaning up our lunch. As I do, I shake my head.
It doesn’t matter. I am not going to give in to this man. He thinks he has me where he wants me, but he has no idea the kind of restraint I’m capable of.
5
Two weeks have passed. Two weeks since I brought Pamona here, made her mine. My property, my slave, my slut. And yet, she hasn’t asked me to fuck her yet. No matter what I’ve done.
I think back to the first week. Every night, I’d seduced her at dinner. Watched her eyes go wide, her mouth part with want. She wants me, that much is clear. But she resists my advances every time. Even if she lets me finger her, she never breaks, never begs for more.
Just last night, I thought she would finally cave. I stumbled in on her in the living room, a finger in her pussy. She didn’t stop when I came in. Only caught my eye, defiant, and kept touching herself. I stood across from her and undid my jeans. Pulled out my cock and jerked off right there in front of her. She was practically salivating, watching my cock, and yet, she never made a move. Never asked me for more. When we both came, she just stood up and pulled her skirt down, then walked out of the room as if nothing happened.
Why won’t she beg yet?
Why won’t she break?
It’s been two weeks, and I only have two weeks left until the deadline. I can’t afford to wait any longer. I need to escalate this now. I need to break her, completely, until she’s willing to make that video. To humiliate her father, ruin his family legacy. And better yet, make it clear to him who brought about his ruin.
A dark thrill of pleasure runs through me, imagining it.
And yet, at the same time, I can’t ignore the little voice at the back of my head. The voice asking, How will Pamona feel? How will that video affect her life, her plans?
I shake my head. Lift my eyes to the portraits I’m standing beneath, in the drawing room that we’ve emptied out, everything except her piano, because none of us could bear to touch that.
I gaze into my mother’s eyes, painted in perfect, almost painful detail on the largest portrait in the room. I study her face, her gentle smile, the spark of pleasure in her gaze. I remember her the way she was. Before him.
I need to remember why I am doing this. Pamona is nothing more than a stepping-stone—a path to revenge. She can never be anything more.
I turn to leave the room when something catches my eye. Another painting, one of my mother’s less elaborate ones. Just a study of roses, growing on the trellis in the garden. But her brush strokes are long and fanciful, and the style reminds me immediately of Pamona. The way she began to sketch those roses, the way she tilted her head, studying them, catching the light in just the right way…
I shake my head again. I need to stop this.
Or rather, I need to remind myself what it’s all for.
I stride upstairs. Pamona’s door is open—she’s begun doing that, saying that given how often I stop by unannounced, she might as well. But I think she’s beginning to relax here. It looks like it, when I peer in the room and find her reading in bed, curled up on her side, dressed in one of the silk shifts I gave her. She looks so casual, so unconcerned.