The soles of his boots strike the floor in tandem. Closer. Closer. I can’t make his expression out from this angle—just a circle of blackness where his face should be. His body doesn’t disguise his intentions, however. His hands move to his belt. Leather kisses leather with a telltale hiss, followed by the hum of a zipper being undone.
Zzrrrippp…
I’ve heard that sound a million times before, yet it never ceases to steal my breath away.
“You will suffer,” the man tells me, deftly undoing the front of his slacks, revealing a sliver of gray boxers underneath. “Unless…” He pauses, hovering on the edge of a question. Something vital. My answer will determine the next phase of this nightmare. “Unless you tell me what I need to know.”
I nod. It’s instinctive: a desperate jerking of my chin even though I know that salvation is a lie. I’m stalling, and he’s merely prolonging this part of the game. Robert’s decided to use a stand-in tonight—that has to be it. Cuckholding me wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s ever done.
I can survive. I can…
“Answer me, Little One. Believe me when I say that I do not want to hurt you.” The stranger’s voice deepens on the edge of a dangerous note. It’s soft, almost like a whisper. Like a plea:Don’t fuck with me. “Where is your father running to?”
My father?Oh. I blink, fighting to remember. Briar’s father. Where is he running?
“I-I…”
Wait.Robert wouldn’t write this script. There’s no begging. No salacious words he likes to force me to say. No stripping me bare to give me a “taste” of what being his favorite saves me from.
And never, ever did he mention Robert Sr.
I read once that fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. In that case, the mere mention of his father must terrify Robert. He even avoids being called his full name.Bobby, he prefers his minions to whimper.
“I-I…”
“You do not have long to answer.” The stranger cocks his head as if catching wind of a far-off noise. A slow smile shapes his mouth, chilling me to my very core. The hands at his waistband shift, and every deliberate movement makes my chest feel tighter, my heart beat faster.
“I don’t know,” I insist. “I…I don’t know what you mean—”
Too late. The rotting floorboards broadcast his advance. My throat is too dry—I can’t speak. I can’t scream. I can only watch his hand descend before it snatches at the hem of Briar’s skirt. The garment was made especially for her from a designer in France—and he tears it right down the middle.
Weak, I flex my fingers at my sides. Not to cover myself, but to brace. Towering above me on a mass of sculpted muscle, this man will crush me. Experience warns me to arch my back as much as I dare, giving my lungs enough leverage to fill before he does.
Instead… The brunt of his palm grazes my upper thigh and my thoughts dissipate. Ice shoots through my veins, rendering me frozen. It’s not his touch that alarms me. It’s his expression. There’s no lust. No fire. No thrill at the game.
Just anger smoldering in the thumb he draws across my right knee.
To tease?
No. Tofeel: the ropey length of a scar. One of the many Robert left behind.
My neck aches as I crane it in order to watch in horror as his touch continues to roam. He rakes his hands over them all. The cuts. The bruises. Some healed. Some not. He takes one of his fingers, long and callused, and traces a fresher cut along my hip. My belly roils at the slow, deliberate appraisal, and I can’t swallow a gasp. Robert gropes me. He…studies me?
When I look up at his face, I’m forced to reckon with the realization laid bare over the harsh features. Within an instant, the hard veneer of a soldier is stripped away, revealing something much more terrifying: disgust. Then rage.
Tilting his head back, he seeks my gaze out and devours me whole. “Who the hell are you?”