“Do you think she needs another lesson in manners?” Chaz states, his sickly retort causing goosebumps to rise along my arms.
A prickle of unease washes through me, and I swallow thickly. “No.”
“No?” Dorran asks, but I repudiate his statement, more so than the others. I don’t know why I dislike him the most, but I do.
You know what; I do know. It’s because he’s a liar. He’s pretending to be something he’s not, and ever since I saw that flash of humility in his eyes, it makes me hate him more because he has the power to change it all, he just chooses not to. But that doesn’t mean that one flash of humility will change his ways. It will make it worse if I go against what they order me to do.
I gulp. “I’ll get ready.”
My legs are stiff and achy as I set them down on the floor. A buzzing awareness thrums across the surface of my skin, and I turn toward them, seeing all three sets of eyes greedily roaming over me, even as I subtly hide the two-inch mark on my side. My cheeks pink with embarrassment and shame, and before I can stop myself, I try to cover my body more. I loathe the lecherous gazes they shoot my way.
“Brat,” Brett chastises, drawing out his pet name for me. The tenor of his voice has my arms falling down beside me, my right arm barely settling in front of that blasted mark.
Defeat has my face hanging toward the floor. It’s three against one; how the fuck can I fight those odds? They’re all built, tall, and have a mean streak that surpasses a drunk Marine. If they want me to do something, I can either do it willingly or they’ll force me. I really don’t want them to force me to do something again, because it didn’t turn out too well the last time.
Maybe if it was just one of them without the other two around, I’d have more of an advantage. But I don’t see the other two leaving soon, if at all.
“Perfect,” Brett growls. “Now go get ready for dinner.”
With my face still turned toward the floor, I lick my lips, asking, “Where is my bag?”
“Your bag means nothing,” he refutes, causing my head to snap up. Confusion wars inside me, because my bag may mean nothing to him and the others, but it’s where my clothes are. If he wants me dressed, then I need to find my bag.
It’s simple, really. No bag makes for a very naked Ariyal.
“But I—” Chaz chooses that moment to butt in.
“If you go into Brett’s room, darling, you will find a closet. One side belongs to you.” They gave me a side? This just keeps getting weirder and weirder.
Um, okay … “Dare I ask how long you three planned this?”
Brett chortles. “That’s none of your concern, brat. Get changed.”
That familiar tingle of fury unfurls in my gut, but instead of saying a word, I push it aside and soften my features. They know I’m pissed, but it’s useless to show it. They don’t care. All they care about is what they want, and it would do me no good to show I don’t want any of them while they’re all together.
I may pay for my actions against them as individuals when they get together again, but at least I can try to take them on one at a time. I refuse to take this lying down; refuse to cower like some beaten dog.
However, I’m smart enough to realize I can’t win in my current situation. They thrive off each other in a way I’ve never seen before, and it’s a little disconcerting.
Huffing, I go to push past them, very much aware of my breasts swaying heavily from side to side, before a hand lands on my stomach—inches from my scar—and stops me. I can feel their eyes watch my every inhale and exhale. My eyes fall to the hand splayed across my torso, immediately noting it’s Brett’s. He’s more handsy with me than the others.
“Before you go,” he says, and a gasp catches in my throat when I feel him lean toward me, his lips chastely pressing against my cheek. His lips are soft against my face, almost like he admires me, but I know that’s a lie.
You can’t admire someone you want to break. You cherish them; treat them as if there is nothing more important than in the world. You don’t force them to strip. You don’t force them to react because you deem it so.
“C-Can I go now?” I stammer, far more uncomfortable now than ever before.
His breath wisps across my face as he whispers sensually, “Give me a kiss.”
Swallowing hard, it takes everything I have inside not to pull away from him. He hurt me; stripped me bare and made me into a laughingstock. However, that doesn’t mean he won’t do it again if I don’t do what he wants. And while the three are together, that could mean bad things for me.
So, I push everything aside—all my pain, anger, and frustration—and twist my face toward his until our lips are barely an inch apart. I try to tamper down the rapid beat of my heart, but it feels like it will punch right out of my chest. Blood thunders in my ears when our eyes connect, and I inwardly curse myself when his gaze causes tingles to dot along my spine.
Dropping my eyes to his lips, I watch his tongue dart out and wet his, before bringing my gaze back up to his. If I do this, what does it mean? Will he expect me to give into his demands any time he wants me to? Licking my lips, I damn near choke on saliva when his pupils dilate at the movement.
“Kiss me,” he murmurs once more, without the taunting or insulting superiority I usually hear.
I release a shaky breath, then close the distance between our lips. At first, our lips meet hesitantly, mine skating over his timidly. I try to keep it light, innocent, but before I can object, I feel his arm wrap around my waist and drag me closer. His lips press firmly against mine and a groan rumbles in his chest. The abrupt noise alarms me, causing my lips to part on a gasp he takes full advantage of.
Darting his tongue between my lips, I stay stiff as a board when he tries to tangle his tongue with mine. I resist the urge to close my eyes and get lost in a kiss that makes my skin buzz. Instead, I stare into his eyes, never once giving him what he craves. And what he wants is for me to get lost in how he feels against me.
I will never do that. Being smart and weak are two very different things. I’m smart enough to give them what they want when we’re all together, but I refuse to be weak. They will know where I stand on this, whether I stay silent. It will be a cold day in hell before I want them willingly. My body may want them when they touch me, but that’s just biology. It doesn’t mean I want them psychologically.
After a few moments, he pulls away with a sigh. “Go get dressed,” then slaps my ass hard enough to make me squeak in surprise. “Go on, now.”
A grunt slips from between my kiss-swollen lips as I make my way up the stairs. I feel their eyes watching my every movement, like they can’t get enough of the visual. If it were any other situation, I would take that as a compliment. But the only thing it reminds me of is what transpired.
They don’t want me because they want me. They want me because they bought me from my father. It was merely a transaction.
However, that still begs the question of why they want someone that doesn’t want them. Someone that told them repeatedly she would never be with them. They’re forcing my hand in this, and nothing good can ever come from forcing someone to do something they don’t want to do. Eventually, that person will come out of the corner they push her in and start swinging.
After closing the door to Brett’s room behind me, I press my back against it and take the first full inhale of breath since the confrontation. I know it’s silly, because they’re right downstairs with only a flimsy door separating us. Regardless, that doesn’t stop the relief from hitting full force. It’s like the closed door can keep me safe from them.
Closing my eyes, I think about better things. My mother. Living in New Jersey. Going to the arcade with my friends, or even the movies with my ex-boyfriend. How many of those times we spent with our lips glued together in heated abandon with hands roaming everywhere. I think about times that weren’t heavy or filled to the brim with pain and anger.
“This is not my life,” I whisper, wiping a str
ay tear from my cheek as I release a rough exhale.
Yes, it is. You’re their whore now. More tears dance in my eyes as my mind wreaks havoc, filling my head with thoughts better left forgotten.
Their hands.
Lips.
Hard cocks pressing against my body.
The way they make my body and mind war with each other, forcing me into a state of numb I loathe. How can I hate someone, but love what they do to my body? It makes little sense and causes the delusions in my mind to play more tricks. Shaking my head from side to side, I try to knock them out of my head, but it’s as if they’re stuck there. Cemented to the front of my mind, never to go away or lessen.
I feel like there are hundreds of creepy insects crawling all over my body. It’s a familiar feeling of disgust; revulsion with myself and actions. I abhor the way they treat me, but my body—being as fucked up as it is—revels in the way they make my skin hum in pleasure.
I … I can’t seem to catch a break. My world is upside down, but the only constant are the guys—guys I can’t freaking stand. Just thinking about them makes me want to breathe fire, destroying their entire world around them. The pain, anger, and destruction calls to me in a way it never has before. Not even on that fateful night a year ago.
Exhaling, I muster all the energy I have left inside and push off the door. My eyes take in the very masculine room, decorated in various shades of creams and navy blues. A large four-poster bed sets off to the right; the plush, leather headboard pushed against the wall. It’s a lavish piece but understates the kind of wealth the Kingston family has.
Four fluffy, soft looking pillows lie askew against the headboard. The comforter is pushed to the edge of the large bed, halfway lying in the floor, as if he was in a hurry to get out of it this morning and didn’t bother making it. His scent swarms me as I take a step closer, a fine mixture of his cologne, male sweat, and fabric softener.
I’ll never in my entire life admit this out loud, but Brett’s room smells like pure sex. It’s heady, enthralling—damn near orgasmic.
My clit aches between my thighs, nipples hardening into stiff points. Growling under my breath, I shove away from his bed and make my way to his closet. However, when I jerk open the door it’s not a closet, but a bathroom. My eyes widen at the sight, taking in the sleek, expensive décor and glass walls of the shower.
Instant jealousy overtakes me, though, no matter how hard I try to push it down, when my eyes land on a red lace bra lying on the floor next to the shower. His clothes surround it, almost concealing the thin piece of lace, but it’s most definitely there.
I don’t even know why I’m freaking jealous for. Brett can do whatever he freaking wants. It’s not like I’m his keeper, and we’re most definitely not together.
No, he just bought you. That’s worse. Shoving that thought so far into the back of my mind, I shoot one last glare at the bra before walking away. I slam the door behind me with more force than necessary, but the rough, thunderous noise instantaneously makes me feel better.
Walking toward the left, I get to a set of double doors, and fling them open. The light automatically turns on, making me roll my eyes. Motion censored. But when my eyes take in everything inside, my throat dries at the sight.
Chaz was fucking wrong. This isn’t just one side; it’s half the goddamn closet.
Fuck.
On the left, I can spy his clothes ranging from casual, to uniforms, and lastly formal wear. They’re all set up in their certain places, with a rack of shoes beneath. I spy the same thing there. It goes from casual, to school appropriate, then to formal—the shine of his dress shoes glinting off the overhead light.
There are two sets of dressers, one on either side. Two chairs. Two floor to ceiling mirrors set off in each corner.
Every fucking thing is in sets of two.
That’s when my eyes trek over to the right, my mouth threatening to fall open when I spy my side of the closet. There are shirts, jeans, shorts, skirts, uniforms, and formal wear. There are so many gowns, their sequin design glimmering facets all over the place. My stomach clenches in dread.
Then the shoes. I bite my lip as I peruse them, quickly finding nothing I would wear normally. There are no boots, tennis shoes, flip-flops—nothing. They are heels in various height. It seems for casual it’s a low one to two-inch heel, maybe some threes. My uniforms have heels with three to four inches. Something I can never walk around in.
I can walk in heels, yes. But they’re only with boots. They give me more support than strappy heels and wedges. They cement themselves to my feet, and I don’t have to worry about them going anywhere. These heels—they’re not even my goddamn style. They’re all flirty and preppy.
When I finally pull my eyes away from them, the lead ball in my stomach worsens. It feels like I swallowed an anvil, and nothing will make it any better. Brett has all these ideas of me, and it will disappoint him when I don’t measure up. Like I care, but still. I can’t be who he wants me to be. I wasn’t raised that way.
I’m not some mindless zombie that will do his every bidding. I have a backbone made of steel—if only my body would get on board with my mind—and I decide for myself.
He wasted one million dollars, because I’ll never be the princess he’s trying to force me to become.
Something catches my attention in the corner of my eye. It’s glimmering in the light, thousands of lights sparkling off its surface, shooting in different directions. Turning toward it, I find it’s the only thing on top of my dresser; there isn’t even anything on top of Brett’s. Shifting forward, my body readies itself, like something is about to jump out at me. Anxiety claws at my throat, making it hard to swallow.
Coming to a stop in front, I spy a little note sitting right next to it. The scrawl is perfect, albeit a man’s writing. Large, regal, block letters that cause my throat to shrink further.
Brat,
You belong in nothing but this.
B.
My eyes bug out of my head as I take in the large heart shape diamond choker. The two diamond encrusted metal clasps lock on either side, forming a perfect circle. It looks barely large enough to clamp around a person's throat. It’s beautiful, that I won’t deny. But why does he want me in this and nothing else? It seems too extravagant of a piece to wear while naked.
CHAPTER 20
“I can’t wait for your heels to dig into my back while your wear that.” A voice from behind scares me. I scream in surprise, then whip around with my hand splaying across my naked chest and stomach. My heart is pounding a mile a minute as I meet his cerulean eyes.
“You scared the shit out of me.” I swallow hard, wondering what the hell he’s doing up here. He’s supposed to be waiting for the food.
He smirks, and I watch his face darken right before my eyes as he steps inside the closet. The lead weight grows exponentially when he closes it behind him with a soft click. His eyes continue to roam over my body, and I can’t deny that my body likes the attention. But that doesn’t mean my mind does. They’re, once again, warring with each other.
“You need help,” is all he says as he makes his way toward me.
My eyes follow his every move, never once blinking, for fear that in that millisecond, where he’s out of my sight, he’ll do something I can’t prepare myself for. He could lunge and grab me. His fast reflexes could take me by surprise, and I’ll be helpless to his actions.
“I’m fine,” I grit out.
He’s alone, but that doesn’t mean we’re alone. I’m sure the other two are still downstairs, waiting on the RPA staff to bring up our dinner. So, it’s not like I can fight back. They’ll be onto me in a second and race upstairs to see what’s going on.
Think, Ari, think … I bite into my lip harder, then blurt out, “What’s this?”
I gesture to the necklace behind me on the dresser, watching as his eyes light up in sadistic pleasure. “What do you think it is?”
“A necklace?” But what I wan
t to call it is a collar, like he thinks of me as some type of pet he can latch a leash to and walk me around RPA’s campus.
He shakes his head, smiling wider. There’s a flicker of some emotion that flashes through his mischievous eyes, but it’s gone before I can accurately put a name to it. But I can tell by the way his body is taut, that he’s either excited or nervous about something. However, he doesn’t allow me to wallow in my thoughts for long. He steps forward again, and I mirror him, pressing my back against the drawer.
“Um, a choker?” I muse quietly.
“Close,” he retorts, his voice darkening with imbibed hunger. He’s acting as if being near me is the finest top-shelf whiskey, and he’s happily lapping it up. He comes to a stop within inches of me, his large body looming over mine. His need rolls off him in waves of unadulterated hunger, causing me to gulp under his perusal before he whispers, “It’s your collar.”
“M-My collar?” I reply breathlessly.
He growls in confirmation; it’s a sound filled with hunger, all deep and gravelly. It causes prickles of some unknown emotion to well up inside me. I can’t put into words what that sound does to me, all I know is it does something. But before I can say anything, my lips part in a gasp when I feel his hands settle on my hips just above the waistband of my jeans. I’m naked from the waist up, but it seems …
His masculine fingers flick the button on my jeans open. “Here, let me help you.”
I blink, confused. “No. I—uh—I got it.” It’s bad enough he could have gotten a glimpse at the knife scar on my stomach, but there’s no way he can see what’s underneath my jeans. I just … I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again without feeling like I don’t measure up.
By the time I’m able to suck in a sharp breath, he’s already on me, gripping my chin tightly and jerking my gaze up to his. His eyes are stormy, like a sea of anger and thunder. “Did I ask for permission?”
“N-No,” I stutter.
He nods. “That’s because I don’t have to ask for shit with you. The sooner you get that through your pretty head, the better. You are ours. What we say, you do. It’s not the other way around.”
Little Plaything: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Reighton Preparatory Academy Book 1) Page 13
