Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Olena serves him first, then she comes over to me. She gives us ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches on warm, buttery croissants with sides of fresh fruit.
Once we have all our food, Silvan dismisses her with a warm, “Thank you, Olena,” and she bows her head to him, then goes over to the cart and disappears from the room.
She’s gone for approximately three seconds before I say, “She calls you master.”
He glances over at me. “Yes.” When I only continue to stare at him, he smirks. “Do you hate it?”
“Yes, I hate it,” I blurt.
“It’s not personal,” he says dismissively. “The house she was in before ours, the husband liked for her to call him master.”
“I wonder how his wife liked it,” I mutter.
Still amused, he grabs his glass of orange juice. “Not much. Why do you think she’s with us now? Official story is it wasn’t a good fit, but Mom says the wife found a condom wrapper between the couch cushions and demanded she go.”
My eyes are wide. “Have you slept with her?”
He shakes his head. I don’t know why I feel a small measure of relief. “I don’t fuck the help. Neither does my dad, so having her here wasn’t a problem.”
“I’m surprised your mom’s comfortable having her here knowing that.”
“Why?” He looks over at me. “Olena’s willingness to fuck married men poses no threat to her. My dad’s not a cheater. Men are completely capable of keeping their dicks in their pants around willing women, Sophie. If the only reason he isn’t cheating is a lack of opportunity, better to find out while you’re young and can find someone better.”
“I guess that’s true. Still, it seems like needless temptation.”
He shrugs. “He’s not tempted. Besides, the other man who was interested in her wouldn’t have treated her well. At least she’s safe here.”
My brow furrows. “Couldn’t she just opt not to work for someone who would mistreat her?”
“Her options are limited. She’s working off a debt. Not hers, her family’s, but… whether or not she wants to do something isn’t of the utmost importance.”
My frown deepens. “That doesn’t sound legal.”
He cracks a smile and looks over at me as if he finds me adorable. Nodding at my plate, he says, “Eat your breakfast.”
___
After a delicious breakfast, the rest of our lazy Saturday just seems to drift away.
Hugh brought my schoolbag, but I didn’t have time to do it yesterday. Today, we lie around on Silvan’s bed with textbooks and notebooks open doing our homework together.
It’s kind of nice.
Then for lunch, Olena brings us these chicken salads with kale and quinoa. I’m not terribly excited about eating it as I watch Silvan squeeze a lemon wedge over his and then mimic his movements, but I’m sold after the first bite.
Whatever indentured servitude is going on in this place, the food is damn good.
Once we’ve finished with our schoolwork, we laze around and watch some television. I text Mom—under Silvan’s careful scrutiny—and get so comfy, I almost fall asleep.
But then somehow, it’s dinnertime already, and Silvan locks his arms around my waist and pulls me back against him, murmuring, “We need to shower and get dressed for dinner.”
I’ve never had to get dressed for dinner on a lazy day at home before, but things at Silvan’s house aren’t remotely like things at mine.
This time, we shower together.
Silvan goes down on me in the shower, then turns me around and spreads my ass cheeks apart. I shudder as warm water hits my lower back, gasp as he teases my hole with his finger. Looking back at him, I whisper, “Please…”
He can tell I’m reluctant.
That doesn’t always stop him, but right now, it seems to. He releases my cheeks and runs a firm hand over the curve of my ass. Kissing my wet shoulder blade, he rumbles, “Later.”
A threat, a promise—whatever it is, it reminds me that he has access to me however and whenever he wants it as long as I’m here in his domain.
But I won’t be for much longer.
Tomorrow is Sunday, and judging by things he has said, it seems like he’ll let me get back to my regularly scheduled life—minus Professor DeMarco’s class, of course—come Monday.
As we’re both getting dressed for dinner with his parents, I ask, “Do I get to go home tomorrow?”
His hand stills on the collar of his shirt briefly, then he shrugs to adjust the fit and finishes the process of buttoning up. “Eager to leave me, are you?”
The way he says it makes me feel a pinch of guilt, which I know is absurd.
I’m not really being mistreated, and I know I’m not in any danger, but I am still here because he made me be here. Not because I wanted to be. “I just need to get ready for the start of a new week. I have school… a new class, apparently.”