Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“You’re not thinking about backing out now, are you?” He turns to me, and I can’t help but notice his trim body—tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, partly unbuttoned, tucked into dark gray slacks that stretch over his thick thighs. For half a fraction of a second, I wonder what he looks like beneath his clothes. Are his abs chiseled? “You do remember you signed a contract?”
Yes, and Alexei didn’t give me a lot of time to look it over before forcing my signature. It was bad enough he’d barged into my apartment before I could even open the door all the way. I wasn’t about to say no. “I’m not backing out. Just curious.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle. Besides, how else would you be able to pay off such a huge debt in one night?” He laughs, lifting an eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather pay it off in one of my other establishments. We aren’t as… discerning when it comes to the clientele, but plenty of girls are there who can show you the ropes.”
He’s talking about a brothel or something like that. So either I can slowly work off my debt and basically be an indentured servant, or I can get it all over with in one night.
What’s the worst that could go on down there, anyway? They couldn’t let guys torture girls, could they? Cause serious harm, the sort of stuff that means a trip to the hospital or a lawsuit? Think about the liability this seemingly professional guy would bring down on himself if he let that happen.
Besides, I would’ve heard more than whispered rumors about the club if things got really bad around here. That’s not the sort of thing you can get people to shut up about. If a girl got seriously hurt, she’d tell somebody, right? Doubt spurts in my gut, but I squash it before it can develop further. I have to do this. I have no other option.
I realize he’s waiting for me to answer, watching me, standing perfectly still. I’d better say something. “No, this is fine.”
“I thought so.” He picks up the fresh drink, but instead of handing it to me, he sets it on the edge of his desk. Perching on one corner, he folds his arms, looking me up and down again. His face is perfect, to the point where I wonder if he was born with it. He’s obviously got the money for it.
But no. The more I look at it, the easier it is to spot the tiny imperfections. A slight tilt to the otherwise straight nose. A faint scar on his square jaw, barely covered by black scruff. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. How old is he? Early forties, maybe, though it doesn’t show as much on his face as it does in his entire manner. The way he talks, the commanding energy rolling off him.
If there’s one thing I learned to pick up on, it’s energy. Reading a man, so I’ll know whether his silence is just the calm before the storm.
“As per the terms of your contract, you understand that we don’t use safe words in Hell. Once you go down there, there’s no leaving until the guest is satisfied. Remember that. The satisfaction of my guests is always the highest priority. Tell me you understand that.”
“I do. I understand.” Still, I can’t help myself. “So there’s no way to get them to stop?”
His face is blank. “No. Those are the terms. And you did sign a contract, agreeing to those terms.”
Yes, I did, because that’s my fucking life now. Jumping out a window to escape a burning building, only the street below is also on fire. I can’t catch a break.
He tips his head to the side. “It’s a funny thing. I can’t find much about you online—and yes, before you ask, I make it my business to know who works here, even if it’s only for a single night. When I searched for your name online, I barely came up with anything. Do you know how unusual it is for someone your age not to even have social media?”
A cold finger traced an icy path down my spine. “I’m a pretty private person.”
“No, I’m a private person. You strike me as someone who’s hiding something. Twenty years old and not so much as a Facebook account. That’s very unusual. It looks like you’ve only lived in your apartment a handful of months, but that’s the most I could find. And I am very thorough.”
What am I supposed to do? Tell him the whole story? Maybe he’ll feel sorry for me. I almost snort, doubtful. No, I don’t want anybody feeling sorry for me. I was stupid enough to fall for that bastard, stupid enough to believe him every time he said it would never happen again, stupid enough to cover the bruises so nobody would think badly about him.