That’s the exact moment I realize he’s not lying about the pregnancy. Fuck.
Jase looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He’s a fucking excellent actor. He deserves an Oscar for this shit right here. Assuming he’s acting.
He grabs a handful of Dornan’s shirt and shoves him aside. “I’m gonna kill this fucking bitch, pop,” he spits, storming me. I huddle in the corner between the bed and the wall, my hands in front of me. It might be pretend, but I still don’t want to get fake-bashed. It hurts almost as much as being beaten up for real. He reaches for me but misses, a sharp yank on the back of his leather cut taking him away from me. Dornan pushes him into the wall, and I hear the plasterboard crack under the pressure of Jase’s head knocking into it. My first instinct is to run, to huddle in the bathroom, but instead I stay crouched in the corner, watching in sick fascination as Dornan raises his fist to his youngest son.
“Let me beat her to death, pop,” he says desperately. “Let me do it slowly.” He glances at me. “I could make her death last weeks.”
Dornan laughs, looking at me with a mock-shocked expression, as if to say can you believe this guy?
“She’ll die by my hand,” Dornan says to Jase, suddenly serious again. “And when I decide. How the fuck did you get in here, anyway?”
Jase raises his eyebrows. “I got a spare key from the garage,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t you know all the doors in this place have the same key?”
Dornan glares at him, eventually letting Jase’s shirt go. He pats the shirt back into place and jerks Jase toward the door.
“Go,” he says. “Wait. Give me the key first.”
Jase scowls, withdrawing a single key from his jeans pocket and tossing it at Dornan. Dornan catches it in one fist easily, turning it over to study it.
“I’ll be back to sort you out, bitch” Jase spits at me, and I stare in horror that is kind of fake but kind of real as he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
Relief and despair flood me. Relief because Jase is alive. Jase is okay. And by the look of things, Dornan doesn’t know about us.
Despair because he’s gone again, just as quickly as he arrived, and I’m still here with Dornan.
Dornan looks at the closed door for a long time before he turns back to me with a look of satisfaction on his face. He slips the key into his pocket and snaps his fingers. “Get up. Come here.”
I stand reluctantly, but don’t move toward him. He smirks and reaches into his back pocket, that goddamn Taser suddenly in his hands again. He holds it in front of him and depresses the trigger, causing a bright crack of electricity to spark between the two prongs at its end.
Dornan pockets the Taser and pulls something else out again. A syringe full of clear fluid. I swallow thickly, wondering what it is this time.
“Don’t be scared,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans. “If you’re a good girl, and you do as you’re told, you can have some of this.” He sneers. “It’s the good stuff, baby girl.”
“I don’t want some of that,” I reply sharply. “I’m not a fucking junkie.”
He smirks. “Neither was your momma.” Ouch. He sits at the foot of the bed, his back to me. He’s so unafraid of me, he doesn’t even have to keep me in his line of sight.
“Strip.”
When I don’t move fast enough, he pockets the needle and pulls the Taser out again.
“Faster.”
Reluctantly and with considerable effort, I locate the hem of my nightgown and tug the entire thing over my head, dropping it next to me. I’m dressed in nothing but a black pair of panties that are new as well, the lace edging matching the silk nightgown. Jesus Christ. This is sick.
He shrugs out of his leather cut and holds it out to me. “Put this on.”
I take the sleeveless cut, shrugging it over my thin frame. It dwarfs me, but by some small miracle, it covers my breasts. I tug it closed across my chest and look at him morosely.
“My turn,” he says. “On your knees. Take my shoes off.”
I roll my eyes, but kneel down in front of him, unlacing his boots. I tug on one and he lifts his foot, letting the boot slide off. Once the boot is off I take his sock off, and repeat this action with the other foot.
“Good girl,” he says. “I’m a little disappointed. I thought I’d get to kick you in the face at least once for refusing.”
He stands. “Pants.” He smiles as he clarifies, “Everything. All of it. Off.”
I stare at him sullenly, noticing his dick pressing hard against the material of his jeans. Great. If he makes me suck it, I’m going to bite the fucking thing off, even if he kills me for it. It’d be worth it. I pull at the already unbuttoned pants, avoiding his erection as I tug the material past. Once they’re around his knees I do the same thing with his boxer shorts, and I’m suddenly eye-to-eye with his raging hard dick. I lurch back, suddenly nauseous again.
My reaction earns a deep laugh from him.
“On the bed. On your back. Now. Or I’ll shove this so far down your throat, it’ll come out the other end.”
I scurry to sit on the edge of the bed, as far away as I can, and swing my legs up. I can handle the punches and the kicks, the touches and the pain, but I can’t handle the thought of being mouth-raped by him. Not today. I’m also keenly aware of the stun gun that sits on the bed beside him, and how much I want to avoid giving him reason to use it on me again. The last time he did, I felt I was going to die, and not a painless, delicious sleep-death like the hotshot of heroin. It was fucking horrible, and I’ll do almost anything to avoid being shocked again. I lay myself in the middle of the bed, propped up on stiff elbows, not letting him out of my sight. The rough leather of the cut brushes painfully against my nipples, and I stay as still as possible to stop that icky feeling it evokes in my belly.
He leans down and fishes something out of his jeans. Crawling up onto the bed, he straddles me, his hardness pressing painfully against my thigh.
He wraps that something around my upper arm, and I look down, seeing it’s a silk tie. Probably the same one he wore to the funeral, I think to myself. That makes me feel marginally better. Until I remember his plan for me, to breed me until I replace his dead sons.
Now I feel like shit again.
He produces a syringe from thin air and inserts it into my vein, pulling back so that my blood flows into the syringe, mixing with the clear fluid to form a dangerous red-tinged cloud of nirvana. I can feel myself tensing, waiting for that hit, and despair slams into me when I realize how addictive this shit is. I’m already looking forward to it, looking past the needle completely, not even caring if it might kill me. I’m already one step away from being addicted to this shit.
And I don’t even care. I just want him to hurry up and push the fucking plunger down and let me have my fix.
Jesus. I’m even thinking like a junkie with junkie words. My mother would be so proud.
I glance at the syringe, hanging out of my arm, as Dornan moves his hand away and down between my legs. “What, you’re not excited to see me?” he says, sneering as his hand obviously detects no wetness.
I move my other hand toward the syringe, brazenly attempting to grab it in order to inject the good stuff and at least make this a little more bearable, but Dornan slaps me away as though I’m a kid with my hand in the cookie jar.
“It’s quid pro quo, baby,” he says, spitting on his palm and rubbing his saliva between my legs, making my stomach roil. “Something for something.”
“I know what quid pro quo means,” I say, suddenly annoyed. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”
He laughs, pushing into me forcefully. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily. I’m not ready, and it burns.
“You’re especially tight today,” he says, moving roughly, quickening his pace. “I like it.”
I roll my eyes. “I think it’s called dry,” I reply sharply. “As in, not turned on at all. You disgust me.”
He smirks, slamm
ing into me harder, making me cry out. “You sure about that?”
I stare at the ceiling. Sad and worn out and numb. “Yep.”
“Well, I intend to get off,” he says, ripping the leather cut open and squeezing my breasts.
“I know,” I respond slowly, as if he’s an idiot. He responds by wrapping his fingers around my neck and squeezing tight.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers suddenly, moving faster. “You are mine, you know that, right?”
I frown, looking at him in shock and revulsion, gasping for a breath.
“I own you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Say it and you get your reward.”
He puts his hand below the syringe, still full and sparkling as it hangs out of my arm. It isn’t really sparkling, but in my head, it is. Yes.
“I’m yours,” I say blankly, licking my lips as I watch his fingers move.
“Good girl,” he says.
I swallow thickly, groaning as he pushes down the plunger on the syringe, flooding my body with something better than the best orgasm anybody could ever have. Better than the best fucking sunshiny day. Better than first love and forehead kisses and rainbows.
Better than anything.
Bliss.
“Tell me again who owns you.” His voice is suddenly far away, and he pries one of my eyes open, forcing me to look at him as I ride the high inside my marshmallow veins.
“Say it,” he demands, louder this time.
I giggle, the drugs making their way through my limbs so heavy and soft. It’s like I’m a feather floating in the ether.
“I fucking hate you,” I whisper, giggling hysterically as he digs his fingers into my flesh, roaring as he comes, as he fills me with his hate. “You’ll never own me, you piece of shit.”
A moment later, when he’s finished, he backhands me across the face so hard I see stars.
It just makes me laugh harder, though.
I think I’m going mad.
But I don’t care anymore.
The next morning, I’m sporting a bruised cheekbone and a spectacular gouge mark in my arm from the needle of heroin that Dornan dug in not very carefully. I’m woken by the door flying open, and I push myself up to a sitting position in time to see Dornan standing in the doorway with a cunning smirk, balancing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in one hand.
He looks like he’s going to storm in and kill me, which isn’t very reassuring. I shift backward on the bed, a sudden gush between my legs reminding me of what happened last night before he left. Eww.
I look down to see I’m still naked except for his leather cut, and a rolling wave of nausea slams into me. I put my hand over my mouth, swinging my legs off the bed and scrambling to the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I lose last night’s dinner.
Gasping for breath, I look to see Dornan standing in the doorway to the bathroom. “Take a shower,” he says briskly. “Five minutes.”
I glare at him, shrugging out of his cut and tossing it on the ground before I step into the glass shower cubicle. I slam the door forcefully, but not hard enough to break it, and he watches my every move as I scrub myself with a bar of soap that smells like lavender.
After I’ve soaped everywhere and rinsed off, I shut the water off. He hands me a towel and I snatch at it angrily, annoyed that he’s being nice to me. I preferred it when he was choking the life out of me. This shit is just messed up.
He points to a scrap of folded white material on the counter next to the sink. “Get dressed. It’s time to eat.”
He leaves the room and I snatch at the white clothing, shaking it open. It’s a white sundress, with an empire waist and stretchy sides. It’s a maternity dress, for fuck’s sake.
I fling the dress on the ground and wrap the towel around me instead, stepping out of the bathroom. I’m starving, but if he’s going to stay in here and watch me, I’m not touching his fucking food.
A look of annoyance flashes over his features as he sees I’m not wearing the dress, but he doesn’t say anything. He points to the wicker chair that overlooks the balcony, the plate of eggs and bacon sitting on the table next to it.
“Sit,” he says, tapping the back of the chair. “Eat.”
I frown. “You were trying to starve me, and now you’re trying to fatten me up? I don’t think so.” I cross my arms over my chest, water from my wet hair dripping down my shoulders and seeping into the top of my towel. Luckily, the heat seems to be turned on in this part of the house, or I’d be freezing cold.
“Juliette,” he says sharply.
I storm over to the plate, picking it up and hurling it at the window. I’m so weak that the stupid plate doesn’t even break—nor the window—but it’s still satisfying seeing the eggs slide down the glass as the bacon rains onto the carpet. My stomach protests, but I don’t care. I’d rather starve to death than eat his food.
He nods, a grave expression on his face. Pulling his phone out, he dials and waits, never taking his eyes from me.
“Bring that little servant girl up here,” he says to whoever is on the other line. “Quickly.” He ends the call and pockets his cellphone, looking oddly calm despite my act of defiance.
He sits in one of the two wicker chairs, turning it to face me, while I stand there and drip water on the carpet. What is he playing at? Suspicion bubbles up in me, keeping the hunger company. A moment later the door opens, and The Prospect is there, but he’s not alone. He’s holding the wrist of a young Hispanic woman, who’s eighteen at the most, and probably younger than that. She’s dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and a black knee-length skirt, some kind of uniform I guess. He pulls her into the room and kicks the door shut behind him.
“What’s your name,” he asks the servant girl.
“Violetta,” she says quietly.
“Did you cook this food?” Dornan asks her pleasantly, his fingers templed in his lap.
“Yes, sir,” she says, nodding frantically.
“Well,” Dornan says. “Apparently it’s not good enough for my girl.” He flashes a fuck you smile at me, then turns back to the girl as my panic mounts.
“Ese,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Today’s your lucky day. Stand right where you are. Violetta, unzip his pants and start sucking his cock.”
“What?” The Prospect and I both say at the same time. The poor girl is too scared to even open her mouth to question her asshole of a boss.
“Have you got a hearing problem?” he asks, shifting in his seat. “Or would you like me to give you one?” He pulls his gun from his waistband and sets it on his lap as a clear warning. “Sometimes, if the bullet doesn’t get lodged in the brain, I can get it in one ear and clear out the other.” He smiles cordially, as if he’s talking about the fucking weather.
“Knees. Suck. Now. Do you need that in Spanish?”
“Boss,” The Prospect says, shifting from foot to foot.
“Shut up,” Dornan says. “You’re expendable. There’s a million other fuckin’ chili eaters out there who’ll take your place, Mexicana. Stand there and do as you’re told.”
Violetta sinks to her knees, fumbling with the guy’s zipper, and in no time at all, she’s pulled his soft cock from his pants. Poor guy. I don’t blame him for not being hard. It’d be pretty hard to get it up with Dornan Ross calling the moves on your surprise blow-job.
“Well?” Dornan says, amused. “It’s not gonna suck itself, Violetta.”
She glances at Dornan before opening her mouth, sucking him in. I’m still staring, horrified.
“You,” Dornan says, distracting me. “Go and put your dress on. Pick up your mess. And eat every fucking scrap of breakfast that Violetta cooked for you. Once you finish eating, Violetta may stop.”
“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I say, my mouth agape.
Dornan shrugs, a giant grin on his face. “Nope,” he says. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s pretty fucking funny.”
I glance at Violetta, who’s getting
into it now. The Prospect is trying to feign indifference, which looks pretty hard when he’s getting blown.
“He’ll come eventually,” I argue. “And I’m not eating your fucking breakfast.”
He laughs, obviously loving this. “Oh, baby girl. If he comes, I’ll just make her blow me. Then I’ll make her eat your pussy,” he laughs, “and if you’re still not doing what you’re told, I’ll go and gather up all of the men in this house, and make you watch while they take turns raping her.”
If I thought my mouth was agape before, now it’s practically sitting on the carpet. I glance at the girl, who is doing her best to get the guy off given the circumstances. Fuck.
Dornan can see the indecision on my face. “I think there are seven men in the house,” he says. “Maybe eight. Ever been fucked by eight men before, Violetta?”
She stops what she’s doing and looks at Dornan fearfully. “No, sir.”
“Did I say you could stop?” Dornan asks sharply, making her jump. She turns back to the job at hand.
I stare at Dornan, rage in my veins. He stares right back, and we both know he’s won. Of course I’m not going to let the girl get gang-raped. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? He threatened that specifically because he knows it will cut me the deepest to even consider.
I turn on my heel, storming into the bathroom. I drop the towel and snatch up the stupid dress, shoving it over my head and pulling it down so that it covers me. Stalking through the bedroom and over to the spilled mess of scrambled eggs and bacon, I scoop up the majority of the food and toss it onto the unbroken plate.
I drop into the second chair, balancing the plate on my knees, and shove a piece of bacon in my mouth. I chew it quickly, swallowing it, before picking up some of the scrambled egg mess.
“She can stop now,” I say to him with a mouthful of egg. “I’m eating. I’m wearing the goddamn dress.”
Dornan chuckles, unzipping his pants as The Prospect makes a strangled grunt and the girl makes a gagging noise.
“Violetta here can’t stop until you’ve finished all your breakfast,” Dornan says, snapping his fingers at the girl. I shove as much food as I can in my mouth, Dornan chuckles as he watches me.
Three Years Page 7
