No, he wasn’t my master. Not with his short, sleek hair and
sharp widow’s peak. Not with his clenched, stubble-smooth jaw and trim
physique. He was not my master. No
one was.
Tears pricked as I thought about Brax. He seemed a world
away compared to this reality. Brax was rough and boyish, a hard worker through
and through. The man, staring with pale jade eyes and an unreadable, chiselled
face, lived in total contrast. Power radiated like visible waves, unsettling me
more than anything.
He wasn’t the fat, repulsive bastard who used wealth to buy
sex slaves. He wasn’t gross or any other monstrous things. Who is this man?
My eyes widened, drinking him in—the owner of this house.
The owner of… me. No, never.
I didn’t care who he was, because my life belonged to me. I stuck out my chin, glaring. I
wouldn’t be intimidated by wealth or stature. I didn’t care he was tall and
moved like he expected the world to lick his shoes. I would never lick anything
of his.
The man never broke eye contact, ensnaring me in his gaze.
Slowly, he pushed off the banister and moved toward the stairs.
I gulped.
He was smooth water—effortless in refinement but just like
still water, dangerous if you couldn’t swim. Deadly rips and currents lurked
deep below the surface. I eyed him, trying to figure out what sick pleasures he
indulged in that normal, willing women were hard to come by.
My heart raced with every step he took, descending toward
me.
The guard pushed me forward. “Bow to your new master.”
I tripped, but regained my footing instantly. My fists
shook, I clenched them so hard. My injuries reminded me all of this was wrong.
In some warped sense, it seemed innocent like the owner of the house merely
welcoming a guest.
“I have no master,” I said, putting every ounce of rebellion
into the words. “Let me go.”
The man stopped mid-step, head cocked. His fingers curled
around the banister, showing manicured nails, no calluses in sight. Once again,
pale eyes connected with mine, sucking my thoughts into a vacuum.
Up till now, his face had been unreadable, but as we stared,
flashes of emotion buffeted me. Anger. Interest. Annoyance. Resignation. And
finally, in a blaze of jade…lust.
My breath quickened and I tried to step back again, only to
collide with the wall of the guard’s chest.
The guard placed a hot, heavy hand between my shoulder
blades and pushed, forcing me into a struggling, painful bow. “Do as you’re
told.”
So many thoughts collided. I wanted to spin and steal the
gun in the holster under his arm. I wanted to shoot everyone. I wanted to slash
at the gorgeous artwork and priceless artefacts around the room. Such things of
beauty did not deserve to belong to a man whose goons forced a sex slave to
bow.
“Bastard,” I muttered, hating I couldn’t do any of it. All I
could do was obey—for now.
“Stop. If she doesn’t want to bow, then don’t force her.”
The masculine voice reminded me of glinting steel, shaped with precision and
strength. It was the sound of authority, and despite my best attempts to rebel,
I bowed on my own. The sheer weight of his voice compelled obedience.
The guard’s hand left my back. He chuckled. “If she doesn’t
want to bow, perhaps she wants to crawl.”
My back snapped upright, and I jumped a mile. My new owner
stood directly in front of me. Hands in his slack pockets, head cocked slightly
to the side, as if inspecting a piece of art.
“She may crawl if she wishes,” he murmured.
“I do not wish,” I snapped.
Once again, our eyes connected and I searched for the evil
like the men in Mexico, but he guarded himself too well. Nothing gave away what
he thought, even the emotions I’d seen before were gone.
We stood staring for moments, before the guard behind me
cleared his throat. Shattering the fragile silence and condemning me to
whatever would happen next.
“Laissez-nous.” The man waved a hand toward the exit. Instantly, the guard
left along with a few others I hadn’t seen lurking. The rustle of their suits
sounded like a death sentence as they siphoned out the door.
Oh, God.
My eyes flicked to the left, where a massive library
beckoned. Sultry mahogany, rich maroons, and gold bookcases. A roaring fire
beckoned to read a book and slouch in the wingback chairs huddled around the
flames.
To the right, a ginormous lounge full of comfortable designer
sofas and chairs. Animal hides of zebra and tiger littered the floor, and huge
glass doors reflected me standing under the bright lights of the foyer.
The man stood an arm’s length away. Tears thickened my
throat.
I dropped my gaze, unable to look anymore. Tiredness
descended, and all I wanted to do was sleep—to escape this nightmare.
“You won’t be able to run,” he said, watching closely.
I sucked in a breath. “Who says I’m going to run?”
His lips, smooth and well defined against his five o’clock
shadow, twitched. “I smell it on you—the scent of prey. You’re looking for a
bolthole, somewhere no one can find you.” He leaned in, sending a cloud of
expensive cologne around me. “You’re different, I’ll give you that. They didn’t
break you, but don’t think you can fight me. You won’t win.”
My heart seized. His tone bordered on angry. He was angry at
me? I was the victim here. My chest
swelled with indignation. “What do you expect? I was smuggled here. You bought me. I didn’t come freely. Of
course, I want to run.”
She’s ready for her close-up. . . .
on sale $2.99