Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Because he gave me an afternoon of unequivocal freedom, but I’m returning to my prison, of my own free will, and that makes me question my sanity. Am I so lost that I can’t enjoy an afternoon without someone telling me what to do? Shaking the disturbing thought from my head, I enter through the main door, distracted with thoughts of curling up with a good book, but odd sounds halt me on the threshold of my bedroom.
Grunting.
Rhythmic and fast-paced.
Groans.
Coming from Mr. Bordeaux’s quarters at the end of the wide hallway. I spy the ajar door, and the sounds filtering out draw me closer to peek through the crack.
I wish I hadn’t.
Because Mr. Bordeaux isn’t alone. Loren is with him, and the two are a tangle of limbs on the humongous bed, bodies rutting, skin covered in sweat.
I’m not supposed to see this.
It must be the reason he sent me away for the afternoon. He believes I’m outside enjoying my freedom, grateful for his permission to leave the residence for a few hours.
Instead, I’m spying on him while he pounds his manservant from behind. Loren turns his head, his hooded gray eyes latching onto mine, and we both gasp, drawing the attention of his master. I duck out of sight, but the tremble in my legs and the furious pace of my heart know better.
It’s too late.
The door swings all the way open behind me, and I drop to my knees, hands shaking on my thighs as his feet stomp closer. He appears in front of me, naked and vibrating with anger.
“I-I’m s-sorry, Mr. Bordeaux.”
“Did I give you permission to speak?”
I open my mouth to reply, but fear imprisons my vocal cords.
“Answer me!” His voice booms off the walls, making me jump.
“N-no, Mr. Bordeaux.”
“Did I give you permission to spy on me in my private quarters?”
“No, Mr. Bordeaux.”
“Then why were you doing just that?”
Scared to say the wrong thing, I lick my lips to buy a couple of seconds. “It was cold outside, so I c-came in and h-heard noises…”
“And instead of returning to your quarters where you belong, you stuck your nose in my private business, is that the sum of it, Novalee?”
“Yes, Mr. Bordeaux. I’m sorry.”
“You will certainly be apologetic later, because your actions have cost you a diamond.”
Oh God.
I blink back tears. He’s going to take away my session with Liam. The certainty of it fists my heart, squeezing until I can’t breathe.
Because I need this time with Liam—it’s the only thing giving me hope since I saw him at lunch a week ago. Before I can question the wisdom of my actions, I raise my hand, dying to ask Mr. Bordeaux if he’s going to take away the visit.
“Would you like permission to speak, my queen?”
“Yes, Mr. Bordeaux.”
“Permission is denied. Go to your quarters and wait for me on your knees.”
I scramble to do his bidding, exhaling a harrowing breath as I shut myself away in my bedroom. Lowering to my knees to wait isn’t an issue—I fall to them, composure wrecked as the tears I held back minutes ago drench my face.
He doesn’t make me wait long, and I’m not sure if that’s a blessing, or a curse. Mr. Bordeaux appears in the doorway dressed in dark gray slacks, erection straining behind his zipper. He shuts the door, enclosing us inside my room, and his presence is too imposing for the cramped space. Each inhale and exhale from his mouth seems to steal all the air.
Or maybe I’m just holding my breath, as if not breathing will delay the inevitable.
“You have two options to earn back your diamond.” Bending, he grips my chin hard, and I feel his eyes on me, challenging me to return his gaze.
I want to lock my eyes with his in defiance. Maybe doing so would mean holding on to my last shred of self-respect, despite the consequences it’ll bring. Because I’m disgusted with this man and his sick games, and even more disgusted with my inaction.
But I want to see Liam more, so I study the wall over Mr. Bordeaux’s shoulder, my face burning under his perusal—a dangerous cocktail of revulsion and rage.
“Option number one,” he says, letting his hand fall from my chin. “Tell the chancellor you willingly relinquish your visit with him today. No rescheduling. You’ll have to wait another two weeks for your little chess game.” Returning to his full height, he pulls something out of his pocket and dangles it in front of my face. “Or there’s option two.”
My gaze stalls on the contraption in his hand. It reminds me of the gag he used at the dinner with the Brotherhood, only this one doesn’t have a rubber ball; it has a metal ring attached to two leather straps that buckle. I swallow hard as he swings it back and forth in front of me.