“Shit!” I shout, looking down to see fresh red blood pooling out into the beads of water still dripping across my skin. Just another reminder of who he really is, making me kick myself for every moment of weakness I had last night.
“We don’t have time for all of this,” he moans impatiently, snatching the towel and sloppily blotting down my skin himself. I cringe and recoil under his harsh touch. He seems completely unphased, wrapping the towel around my shoulders and leading me back into the hall with his hand gripping firmly to the base of my skull.
He takes me back to his bedroom and pulls out a dress in my size. “You have to look nice,” he orders, ripping the garment from the hanger and throwing it in my direction.
“What’s the occasion?” I quip back dryly as I reluctantly step into the dress. I’m frightened that he has something like this waiting for me. Whatever is about to happen, he’s been prepared for it.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he spins me and quickly yanks the zipper, making me worry my skin would catch in the ferocity of it.
He pushes me out into the hall and back down the main stairs. He’s tense and sweaty, his skin jerking every time it brushes up against my arm.
The more I take in of the decadent mansion, the more it disgusts me. What a waste for such beautiful things to house such ugly creatures. But really that sums the Elites up perfectly. Shiny and pretty on the outside, complete shit on the inside.
We walk into what looks like the parlor. Maybe some kind of office or study. His sneakers squeak across the glossy hardwood floors as we enter the sitting area arranged before a backdrop of thick velvet drapes across large French windows. The walls tower high above us, accented with crown molding that reflects the tiered crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room.
It looks like a scene from the Godfather, decorated in dark mahoganies and olive greens and deep burgundies. There’s a bar cart that mimics what you’d see in a Mad Men office, complete with a silver ice bucket and various bottles of scotch, brandy and bourbon. The room is dark and smells of cigars.
He leads me in, my hands pinned behind my back, to find a man sitting in a desk chair with his back turned to us. As the chair swivels around I see Mr. Thomas Jameson is the one waiting for us, instantly sparking fear in my heart.
I can already tell he is no different, not that I would have expected him to be. His lips snarl in a viciously sexual grin at the sight of me. I feel the slightest hesitation within Emmett’s arms as he notices how he’s looking at me, but he quickly pushes any reluctance back down dutifully and does nothing.
My guts churn as Thomas stands to walk over to me, forcing Emmett to hold his grip on me as he trails a finger across my cheek. Emmett forces my hand to his father’s for a strong, businesslike handshake.
“I hear you’ve been quite the naughty little girl, Ophelia,” he teases, his voice making me nauseous.
“Don’t touch me,” I whimper, jerking my arms away from Emmett.
He laughs at my protest, his nostrils snarling with gross heavy breaths. “I can see why you’ve been such a handful,” he jokes, reaching out toward my breasts. I try to step backward, but Emmett blocks my way. I cringe under his touch, my face wincing and screaming silently as his hands move lower toward my stomach.
“Get your hands off of me you fucking old perv!” I snap, unable to hold it in any longer. The words spill out over my fear.
My face is instantly socked with the bluntness of his knuckles. He laughs as I press my fingers to my cheek, my brow wrinkled in pain.
“You may be able to outwit my son and his little friends,” he sneers with a crack of his knuckles, “but you’re no match for me, you little cunt.”
He steps away and pulls a handkerchief from his desk, wiping his hands down. Funny how someone so sexually interested in me can quickly turn violent enough to punch me in the face. Both acts apparently being repulsive to him, sparking the need to wash my germs from his hands.
“It’s time to send a message to your beloved father,” he explains mockingly as he paces before me, motioning to his cronies as they deliver a video camera and tripod to the center of the room. I watch him pace the room, his speech accelerating as he barks orders at everyone around. “We’re going to record a little video.”
I blink, processing his words, and focus on him intently. Clinging to any hint of what to expect.
Emmett pulls me from behind, pushing up a chair that I am quickly shoved into as he grabs my arms and ties them behind me. The rope burns into my wrists as he squeezes the knots securely, cutting off the circulation of my hands. My eyes narrow, peering into them as if I look hard enough all of this might start making sense.
“You’re going to beg for your life,” Mr. Jameson commands. “Let him know that if he doesn’t stop, we have other ways to help make him.” He speaks slowly and forcibly, trying to sound in control, but I can tell he’s coming apart.
“I had never even heard a word from my father up until a few days ago,” I protest. “I don’t think I’m your best bet at getting him to do anything. He doesn’t give a shit about me.”
“Oh, I like a girl with daddy issues,” he taunts, sweat gleaming on his face. “You let us worry about that and just do what we tell you.”
Once the camera is in place, one of the men holds his finger over the red record button, waiting for his cue to start the video.
“Now, keep in mind, dear…the success of this message really is up to you,” Thomas explains snidely. “Whether or not your father responds accordingly, allowing us to spare your life, will depend entirely on how convincing you are.” He stops in front of me, leaning over to perch his hands across the arms of my chair. He winces, his face twisting into disapproval. “I don’t know…you don’t look afraid to me.” He turns to Emmett. “What do you think, son? Does she look afraid to you?”
I see Emmett turn away in the corner of my eye, refusing to answer. Suddenly my head whips around with a painful sting across my cheek. Thomas is laughing as he stands back, proudly admiring the redness of my face as I whimper in pain.
I rock back and forth in the chair, trying to control my heavy panting as I tell myself over and over that this will all be okay. It has to be. My back arches as I squirm in discomfort with deep, shuddering breaths that make me feel lightheaded.
Emmett doesn’t make me feel the least bit safe anymore and with Thomas’s looming presence, already having hit me twice just in the few short minutes I’ve been in the room, I feel like I’m having a panic attack.