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  I’m cold. I’m numb. And then I’m on fire—like the bastard doused me in gasoline and lit a match. My legs burn up. My hips. My cunt. My soul.

  I’m dying. Rigor mortis sets in fast: I stiffen, every muscle clenched so tightly that I can’t breathe. Maxim is the only part of me that’s still alive. Still moving. Still fucking. Striking the same deep, distant part of me over and over and over.

  Obliterating it.

  I taste blood. I’m drenched in it, rocking back and forth, side to side, until I can’t breathe.

  And as my vision goes black, a single thought sneaks into my fading mind. For the first time in my fucking life, I feel nothing.

  Maybe this is freedom.

  Chapter 7

  He’s gone. I know that even before I wake up. Maxim is gone.

  And I failed. I got more than just blood on the sheets. Me. Sweat. Drool. I smell it all lingering on the air beneath a masculine musk. While he may not be in the room, he’s not far. My body senses it, reacting to the cues my other senses can’t pick up.

  My heart is already racing even before I hear the footsteps. Heavy. Unsteady. I drag myself upright the moment he appears in the doorway, staring down at me with ice-cold eyes.

  “I changed my mind,” he tells me, sounding almost human once again. His pants are back up, but blood is splattered on the hem of his shirt. A few lethal drops, still dark. Still wet. “Get out. Now.” He jerks his head toward the hall.

  I try to move and everything goes black. My teeth clamp over my bottom lip, trapping any noise I want to make. Words break through anyway. “W-what did I do?”

  The pain isn’t strong enough anymore. I can’t think. Fear claws through my brain. Money. Money. MONEY. I bet that bitch came back and Daisy probably handed her the rest of the cash. Mikie was probably letting them all run fucking wild. Ainsley and Eric probably killed each other.

  There are so many fucking probablys.

  I shift my weight toward the end of the bed and the pain comes back. Like a bitch-slap. I can think for a split-second: Run. He grabs me before I can even move an inch. His fingers clench my right shoulder, tugging the arm nearly out of the damn socket.

  I slide from the bed. Feel air. Hit the floor, all still held by him. Dragged by him.

  “Get out.”

  I’m moving too fast. Burning carpet. Ice-cold marble. It’s a shock when I finally land at his feet, the leather of his boots nudging my hip.

  “Get out,” he repeats, digging the toe of his boot into my thigh.

  It hurts too much to stand. But I’m too terrified not to move.

  I find a way to my knees as a compromise. My stomach keeps nudging the back of my throat. The room is spinning. My lips part and something warm trickles down my chin. Throw up? Oh. I glance down as the liquid in question drips down onto my thigh. Blood.

  “What is it?” he demands. It’s like I’m hearing him while my head’s under water. He sounds loud, but not loud enough. “Money? Is that it? Or were you sent to me? To tempt me, is that it?”

  I can barely follow what the fuck he’s saying, but for the first damn time in my life, I don’t want to lie. “Money,” I say, the letters running together into one sloppy sound. “I need the money.”

  “Hmph.” Maxim draws himself up to his full height. Some of the darkness in his eyes clouds over. He’s thinking. I try not to look away, but my head’s too heavy. He has to tilt my chin with the pad of his thumb. “Do you want to stay?”

  My throat ignites as I swallow. No. “Y-yes,” I tell him. “I need the money.”

  He frowns, stepping back enough that I can make out the door to the suite behind him. “Give me your hands.” His own go to his waist, tugging something free from the belt loops. A strip of leather. Dark. Thick. “Your hands.”

  They shake as I raise them from the floor as high as I can. They barely go above my chest. Maxim has to bend in order to wrap the end of his belt around them and tug, tying them together.

  “Stand up,” he tells me next, watching as I crawl to the wall and lean against it to find enough leverage to haul myself upright. Inch by goddamn inch. Sweat breaks out over my forehead, gluing my hair to it and basting my skin. “Look at me.” I follow the direction of the cool fingers that nudge my jaw. “Up, up. Good.”

  Black eyes watch me without a shred of empathy. Mercy.

  “Do you want to stay?” he asks me again.

  I just nod. I don’t know why. It’s the pain—it sucks my common sense away. It drowns my fear.

  “Then stay here, just like this. All night. Until I come for you.” He pets me just once, his fingers lingering in my hair. “You move so much as an inch and when I’m through, you won’t be able to walk for days.” His thumb caresses my cheek, the nail grazing the skin. “Do you understand?”

  It hurts to suck in enough air to reply. “Y-yes.”

  “Fine.” His thumbs traces my mouth before he pulls away. With one hand, he yanks the door to the suite open—just enough so that anyone walking by would catch a glimpse of me. Just enough for me to run. “Goodnight.”

  He returns down the hall, heading deeper into the maze of rooms. Minutes later, I hear a door open and shut.

  At least ten minutes of silence pass before I realize he’s serious. Stay here, standing, all night. Just because he said so.

  I leave, he’ll let me go. I think it’s what he really wants me to do anyway.

  But I stay.

  The kids are probably sleeping. Melanie probably crawled her way back into the house. Money. Money. Money. It makes the world go ’round. It makes my world stop spinning.

  I stay here, like this, for money.

  Not because of the pain. Not because of the fact that, even with my knees knocking together and my body weak with abuse and exhaustion, I can think. I can feel. Everything.

  I submit to him for the money.

  Nothing else.

  He wakes up at the crack of dawn. I hear him moving; slow and lazy footsteps drifting through a maze of rooms. He’s taking his time.

  I desperately try to stay conscious even as my eyelids become too heavy to lift. I don’t know how the hell I’m still standing, but I cling to whatever senses I have left until he finally approaches.

  “You’re here.” He almost sounds surprised as he rounds the end of the hallway.

  Warm fingers brush my chin, lifting it the moment he comes close enough. I can’t make out his face clearly—just those eyes: dark slits where a normal human’s would be. He watches me struggle to obey his previous commands. My entire existence is a struggle, fighting to stay fucking upright.

  I suck in air as he lets me go and my toes start to slide against the marble.

  “Go get some rest.” He loosens the belt before finally turning away, heading toward the room with the statue.

  I hit the floor on my knees, choking on the air that floods in. Was I holding my breath all night? Or only for those tortured few seconds of his touch? I can’t tell, and my body is already shutting down. My eyes are closed when his voice reaches me from the sculpture room—a warning.

  “In your room. On the bed.”

  I tense up. He can’t really mean to fuck. Not this early. Not again.

  “Get some rest,” he adds, as if reading my mind. “Though I suggest you move quickly, if you wish to sleep for long.”

  I don’t even try to stand up. I crawl. On my hands and knees at first, and then just with my fingers, dragging myself down the hallway. It feels like I never move. Hours have to pass. I’m dripping with sweat.

  I’m still in the fucking entryway.

  Move, damn it. I give in to the pain, pushing through it, suffering every fiery jolt of it. I don’t stop until my fingers strike wood. I have to rise onto my knees to get the door open, and I use the last bit of strength I have left to close it behind me.

  My mind goes blank after that.

  I don’t just wake up. I’m resurrected—that’s what it fucking feels like. Like that scene in Fra
nkenstein: I’m electrocuted into existence by the cold reality that someone is in my room, standing over me, breathing their poison into my skin.

  “Wake up,” Maxim calls almost gently. “You’ve slept long enough.”

  Slept? It feels like I’ve had my eyes closed for only a few seconds before I’m peeling them open again. I can see him standing in front of me, his polished boots reflecting my appearance. Pale and broken.

  He moved me onto the bed, I realize when the mattress shifts underneath me. I’m on top of the comforter, but it no longer feels as soft as it did before. It’s crusty now.

  “Wash yourself,” Maxim tells me, running his fingers through my hair. “Lucius will arrive shortly. I will be gone for most of the day.” He withdraws his hand and seems to float over to the door; my eyes blink too fast, turning the motion into a series of broken images, like a beautiful, terrifying slideshow. “When I return, I expect to find you properly dressed for the evening. Do you understand?”

  “Yes...” My lungs heave to suck in enough air. “I understand.”

  In the twisted silence after he leaves, I try to remember how to make my goddamn body move. I flex my toes. My ankles. When I try to roll onto my side, I overshoot, falling off the bed altogether.

  A bathroom is attached to my room. I find it by accident when I crawl to the first door I see and pull it open. There’s a tub and a separate shower stall. Marble counters line one wall, and the floor is a cool, gray tile like the kind in the entryway.

  I leave red over it with every inch I drag myself forward.

  Hours. I spend most of them in the shower, trying to wash the blood away without studying the injuries left behind. I can feel them anyway. Every pinch, bruise, cut, and ache.

  I find a towel and manage to pull myself upright, using the counter for balance. The bitch I find looking back at me in the mirror isn’t worth the effort it would take to examine her. So I just run the faucet and swallow mouthfuls of cold water to wash the taste of blood from it. Afterward, I tear my fingers through my wet hair and dry myself. Once the towel is too red, I drop it.

  When I open the door to the bedroom, a stranger is waiting for me, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “It’s all right, Ms. Marconi,” Lucius says, stepping out from the opposite end of my room before I can panic. “This is Mr. Bartley, the tailor.”

  As if on cue, the man opens a case at his feet. Rather than clothes, it has a bunch of fabrics inside of it. Silks. Satins. Lace.

  Lucius watches while Bartley drags a tape measure around my hips, his eyes narrowed.

  “We should start simple for now,” Lucius suggests.

  “Of course.” Mr. Bartley nods and then packs up his case once he’s taken my measurements. “I will send up a few items Mr. Koslov should approve of,” he says before heading for the doorway.

  “Thank you,” Lucius calls after him. “Please send the doctor in.”

  He turns his attention to me and gestures to the bed. The bloody sheets are missing, replaced by a new comforter. White. Pristine. It’s like slapping on a Band-Aid: You can’t see the mess underneath, but you can still sense it.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Marconi,” Lucius urges. “It should be a quick examination.”

  The doctor is an old man with balding, black hair. He pokes and prods at me with a stethoscope and then draws blood—several tubes of it. Lucius steps forward to take them and then leaves the room, while the doctor grabs a sheet of paper from his briefcase and rattles off a million questions.

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Have you ever had children?”

  “No.”

  “Any illnesses that you know of?”

  “No.”

  “Use of any illicit drugs?”

  “No.”

  I’m sure he’s going to start asking questions about my fucking family history any minute, but he folds up the page after scribbling a final line down and shoves it into his briefcase. Just then, Lucius returns with several garment bags slung over his arm.

  “These should last you until the custom work is finished,” he says, setting them down beside me. He unzips the top one, revealing a plain, black dress with a lacy neckline. “Wear this tonight,” he says, but I almost feel like he’s warning me. Please. Or else.

  “Okay.”

  “Until then, you may wear the clothing you brought.” He gestures to my suitcase, which is still where I left it. He grabs it for me before I can attempt to stand on my own and fishes out a pair of sweatpants and an oversized tee shirt. Smart man.

  He turns around while I get dressed and doesn’t hesitate to offer his arm for support when I attempt to pull my pants up. I can tell he’s not being nice for the hell of it. It almost seems routine to him, and once again, I have to wonder…

  Just how many other women were there?

  “You have a few hours before the evening meal,” Lucius says once I sit back down, fully dressed. It’s not hard to grasp the implication: before Maxim comes back. “I suggest that you get acquainted with the layout of the suite.”

  He pauses, as if waiting for me to say something. Ask something.

  I finally manage to croak out, “Um, didn’t you already give me a tour?”

  He nods. “Yes. The rooms I showed you are the ones you are permitted in without Maxim’s permission, barring the carving room, of course.”

  I flinch, remembering my punishment for exploring that particular area alone.

  “I suggest you learn every inch of them,” Lucius adds. “Know your boundaries. I will return sometime tomorrow.”

  He looks me over once, trailing his gaze along my damp hair and the bruises the sleeves of the shirt don’t hide on my arms.

  “Good day, Ms. Marconi.”

  When he leaves, I force myself to stand. Move. Walk. I take Lucius’s advice and explore every inch of the suite that isn’t behind a closed door. I learn my boundaries. This house must be a temporary one—someplace apart from where he actually lives. It smells different than it should. Too clean. Too empty, much like Maxim himself: perfectly fucked-up flawless.

  Maybe that’s what Lucius wanted me to realize: the level of control it would take for someone to live like this. With rooms organized by color scheme, in a home without an ounce of dust in sight. The devil is in the details, after all, and Maxim Koslov seems to take perfection to the extreme.

  Only now am I starting to wonder why he would fish prostitutes from the street for sex.

  “I only want to hurt you.”

  Rather than think on it too much, I keep searching. Keep moving. I wind up traveling the same three rooms over and over, memorizing the placement of every expensive piece of furniture. They all seem unworn and unused. Just decoration. I swear some even have the price tags still on them.

  I run my fingers over the leather couch in the living room. It’s too firm, having never been broken in. The pillows feel stiff.

  The dress, however…

  It’s not new. Not really. I head back into the room just to be sure, running my fingers over the fabric. Someone wore it before I did. Maybe once. Maybe twice. Not long enough to really make an impression or truly call it hers, but enough times for her scent to sink into every thread.

  After my stint at Penney’s, I know a damn thing or two about borrowed clothing.

  Biting my lip, I head toward the closet and go through the clothes again. I sense the same thing from every single fucking item. They’ve all been worn before, some more than others. By different women. Different ages. Sizes. I register at least twenty different body types before I force myself to step away and turn my focus to the bed.

  It’s the only thing in this damn place that doesn’t feel used. No matter how many women he’s paraded through this house, the bed—go figure—isn’t as broken in as the closet. Not as many women have bled on it or slammed their foreheads on the headboard.

  I wonder why. Though it’s not like it’s that big of a mystery.
How many ran away after the first night? How many dumbass bitches came back for a second?

  I try to wash my thoughts down the sink of the bathroom, scrubbing at my teeth with my toothbrush that tastes more like Ainsley than anything else: days’ old sugar and cookie bits. I drag a brush through my hair without looking at myself. I dig my nails into whatever part of me they can reach whenever the panic manages to break through and threatens to ruin everything.

  Money.

  That’s all that matters.

  It’s what makes the world go ’round.

  I need this fucking money.

  When I finally pull the dress on, it fits me a little better than the last one. It’s clean as well, but I can still feel the traces of the woman who wore it last. She was taller than I am by an inch, with bigger boobs and longer hair to frame the scalloped neckline.

  I bet she didn’t sweat as much as I am now. She didn’t bite her lip so hard that she bled and dripped blood into the delicate fabric. I know for a fact that Maxim never tore it off her.

  He’s home. I sense his arrival, even from this deep inside the suite. I hear the lock of the front door click followed by the thud as it slams shut. In the resounding silence, his voice rings out, cold and demanding.

  “Come here.”

  I take two steps before I realize I’m barefoot.

  “Now.”

  Fuck it. I risk meeting him wearing the dress and nothing else. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed by the fact when I finally find him pacing the length of the living room.

  “Come.” He jerks his chin and leads me into the kitchen. There, he directs me to stand in a corner while he drops a paper bag onto the counter and pulls out everything inside it. There’s a hunk of fresh meat like the kind bought directly from a butcher, along with onions, celery, greens, and bread.

  He seasons the meat and puts it into the oven with potatoes before starting on a fresh salad with the greens. The bread he slices carefully with a blade taken from a butcher’s block at one end of the counter.