Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“I don’t understand,” I say, and my voice comes out breathy, almost girlish. “What is this place?”
He smiles again, slow and precise. “Your room. You’re going to stay here until your debt is paid.”
He watches my face as I process this unbelievable statement. “What, like a prisoner?”
“Not a prisoner,” he says, and the word is softer than I expect. “More like an indentured servant. I figured you’d appreciate the irony, seeing that you’ve done jail time in the past.”
I sputter a little.
“That was just one night!”
Trevor shrugs, uncrosses his arms and walks into the room, crowding me back until my knees hit the side of the bed.
“And if I remember, I paid your bail too. So you owe me twice. But I’ll let you acclimate to your new environment. Give you some time to settle in. For tonight, you can get comfortable, and adjust to the fact that this is your new life.” He pauses, then leans down so his handsome features are level with mine. “Tomorrow, you’ll start earning your keep.”
I flush, a hot rush from my toes to my scalp. I want to say something—object, refuse, bargain—but all I can do is open my mouth and then close it again, like a gaping fish.
Trevor smirks, straightens up, takes one last look at me, and walks out of the room. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Then, he strides to the door before pausing.
“Oh yes. I forgot.”
Instead of leaving, Trevor heads back to the desk and fishes out a pair of steel handcuffs from the drawer.
“Hold out a wrist,” he says.
“What?” I whisper, eyes wide. “Are you joking?”
But he doesn’t wait. With a kind of calm efficiency, he snaps the cuff around my wrist before forcing me to sit on the mattress and attaching it to the bedframe’s steel bar, like this is a perfectly normal thing for a man to do to a woman in a cocktail dress.
He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just takes a step back to look at me, one eyebrow arched. The cuff is cold, heavier than I expect, and the metal bites into my skin just enough that I can’t forget about it, not for a second. I’m still in my dress—black, too tight, too short, clinging to my body like a bad decision—and the absurdity of the situation is almost enough to make me laugh out loud.
I don’t, though. I just look up at him, eyes wide, lips pressed together to keep from saying the first stupid thing that comes to mind. I’m expecting him to gloat, or to smirk, or to lecture me about responsibility and consequences, but instead, he crouches down so we’re face-to-face. The lamp on the desk throws a ring of yellow light between us, casting his features in strange, shifting planes. He’s silent for a long time, just watching me, the blue of his eyes even brighter in this little box of a room.
“You understand what’s happening here, don’t you?” he says finally, his voice silky.
I nod, but I don’t. Not really.
He lifts my chin with one knuckle, careful but not gentle, and there’s a flash of something in his eyes—pride, maybe, or hunger, or just the satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed. “Like I said, you get one night to adjust,” he says. “Tomorrow, you’ll start paying down your debt.”
“But what does that mean?” My voice sounds small, not even mine.
He stands, lets his gaze drift over me—every inch of exposed skin, every rumple of the ruined dress, the way my legs are pressed together. I don’t know whether to be angry, ashamed, or downright fearing for my life.
“It means you’ll serve me. In every way I see fit.” He says it simply, like he’s talking about the weather.
I shiver, and it’s not just from the AC.
He’s at the door when I work up the nerve to ask: “But for how long?”
Trevor looks back over his shoulder, blue eyes glinting.
“Until I’m satisfied,” he says, and the way he says it makes me feel like I might never leave this room again.
Then he closes the door, and I hear the lock snick into place.
I pull at the cuff, just to see if it’s a joke, but it’s not. The metal is snug, the chain just long enough to let me sit on the edge of the bed or lay down, but not enough to reach the bathroom or the desk. How is that going to work? I take in the rest of the room, trying to memorize every blank inch: the cracked white paint on the ceiling, the neat seam where the baseboards meet the floor, the faint, yellowed outline on the wall where maybe a picture once hung. The only thing that isn’t white or wood is the lamp on the desk, which burns without hesitation, making the shadows on the walls swim and flicker like something alive.