Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“Fine.” I glared back at him.
He turned and walked past the staircase, leading me deeper into the house. The grandeur didn’t end. Paintings and rich tapestries lined the halls. Some of the artists I recognized, others were a mystery, but I wanted to stop and inspect each one. Instead, I followed my captor. He drew me into a dining room with two bright crystal chandeliers overhead. The table sat at least two dozen people.
He went to a sideboard with a decanter and glasses atop it. “Have a seat. Want a drink?”
I was confused before. Now I was utterly lost. “A drink?”
He looked at me over his shoulder as he poured perfectly. “Yes, Stella. In everyday parlance it means a liquid refreshment. In this context, I’m suggesting an alcoholic beverage.”
Asshole. “Yes.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Whatever you have.”
“We’ll have to work on your tastes.”
I winced at the thought of Vinemont working on anything of mine.
I sank down into the nearest chair and lay my head on the back of my hands.
“What is this?” I mumbled. I wasn’t sure if I was asking him or me.
“This is you and I having a drink as we discuss the contract. I assume you brought it?” He put a glass next to me, setting it down with a slight clunk.
He took the seat across from me.
I dug in my purse and pulled the pages out. “Yes.”
“Good. Have you signed?” He took a drink from his glass, appearing nonchalant. He didn’t fool me. There was eagerness in his eyes, the spider hungry for its next meal.
“No.”
“But you’re here, so I assume you intend to sign it?”
I leaned back and returned his direct stare. “Why won’t you just let my father go?”
“Because he’s a criminal.”
“So are you.”
He drained his drink. “No, I’m not.”
“So slavery is legal all the sudden? No one told me we’d revoked the Emancipation Proclamation.”
The corner of his mouth twitched the slightest bit, as if his cruel smile wanted to surface. It didn’t. “The real question, the one you keep avoiding, is whether you believe your father is a criminal.” He stood and poured himself another drink before returning to the table.
I took my glass and turned it between my palms, the condensation wetting my fingers. Back and forth. “He’s not.”
“Then you really are as dumb as I think you are.”
“That’s fair, given I already know you’re as evil as I think you are.”
He smirked. “Evil? You haven’t seen anything yet, Stella.”
“Funny, I feel like I’ve already seen more than enough.” I gave him a pointed look.
He pushed back from the table and walked around to my side before picking up the contract. His scent enveloped me. I could feel him, his eyes on me, as he stood at my back. He bent over and smoothed the paper with his large hand. I noticed a series of scars along the back of his wrist. They were faint, barely noticeable, but there all the same. A crisscross of damage marking his otherwise perfect hand. I had the wild instinct to run my fingertip along the scratches, to see if he really was made of flesh and blood. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.
“Just so happens I have a pen right here, Stella.” He slapped down a fountain pen next to the signature page.
He leaned in closer, his mouth at my ear though he never touched me. “Sign it.”
I closed my eyes, hoping I would open them and the nightmare would be over. It didn’t work. The paper with my signature line was still in front of me, held in place by his strong hand.
I picked up the pen and poised it over the page. “Are you going to hurt me?” I hated the weakness in my voice, the weakness of the question, but I had to ask.
His warm breath tickled my ear. “Definitely.”
My hand began to shake, my resolve faltering.
“But that doesn’t mean you won’t like it.” He reached around me, his hard chest pressing into my back, as he steadied my hand with his own. “Sign it, Stella.”
His voice was somehow hypnotic, seductive. Instead of loathing, something else bloomed inside me. It was sick, wrong. Even so, I leaned back into him the slightest bit, searching for some sort of comfort. He didn’t withdraw.
His hand was warm, unlike his heart. He pressed down until pen met paper, the ink spreading like blood from a wound.
I should have tried to fight him, to burn the house down and run. But the wall of muscle at my back told me just how futile such thinking truly was. I would have to use other tools at my disposal if I wanted to make it through this ordeal.
I took a deep breath. For Dad. I moved my hand under his, making the swirling signature that bound me to Vinemont, that made me his, his to rule and ruin, for a year. When my signature was finished, the last letter inked, he leaned in even closer, the tips of his lips pressing against my earlobe, raising goosebumps down my neck and lower.