Chapter 15
My father doesn’t let me out of his sight for the rest of the night. In fact, for the most part, he maneuvers us around the room in such a way that he can maintain his iron tight grip on my upper arm or around my wrist, causing the bones to rub together painfully, as though he’s expecting me to run.
Running doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now, and I’m itching to flee. Everything in my body is screaming at me to get away from him, get away from this house. Only, I have no idea where the fuck I would go. With the power of his criminal gangsters, or whatever the hell they call themselves, behind him, he would track me down before I made it to the next town over. No, unfortunately, I can’t run right now. I’ll have to bide my time and come up with a plan, for my own sake.
After another hour or so of endlessly boring conversations, people are finally starting to filter out and head home. I glimpse my father gesture his head to someone, and see a guard stepping out from behind a huge sculpture thing in an alcove by the main ballroom doors. What the hell? Has he been there all night? Are there others?
I quickly cast my eyes to the other alcoves and statues in the room, trying to see if I can spot any more guards, but I can’t see anyone.
The guard makes his way across the room to us as my father turns to me, looking menacingly at me to ensure I know to take the next words that come out of his mouth very fucking seriously.
“You’re done here for the night. You’ve played your part and are no longer needed. Dave here will escort you to your room where you will stay for the remainder of the evening. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?”
This last question is said in such a deep, sinister tone that all I can do is nod my head, wanting to get away from this man, this beast, as soon as humanly possible. How can I be related to him?
I nearly jump out of my skin when Dave places his meaty hand on my shoulders, squeezing tightly to ensure I co-operate, and starts directing me across the room and out the door.
Casting a last look around the room, I realise the other one-percenters have already left. I caught some whispers earlier about there being a party at one of their mansions after this, so I’m guessing they have all cleared off there where there are no adults to interfere with all their teenage debauchery.
Dave continues to keep his hand firmly on my shoulder until he’s shoving me through my bedroom door. “You heard your father, little girl. Stay here. I’ll be watching,” he threatens before stalking off back down the hallway.
I can feel his and Robert's hands all over me and it makes me feel disgusting. I’ve gone days without being able to shower properly or using minimal amounts of shower gel and shampoo when we couldn’t afford to buy more, but I have never felt dirtier than I do right now.
Without any further hesitation, I head straight to my bathroom, kicking off my heels and unzipping my dress as I go. Turning on the shower, I remove the insane number of pins holding my hair in place and take off my make-up before climbing under the hot spray.
I take the longest shower of my life, not caring that I am wasting water, while I literally scrub myself raw. My skin is bright red and tender to touch by the time I finally feel clean enough to step out. Underneath the redness, I can already see the faint outline of bruises forming around my wrist, upper arm and shoulder.
I was scared earlier, in the presence of my father, terrified really, but now that’s fizzled out, and I’m left with all this pent-up anger. That fire of hatred and outrage is stoked and running through my veins, and I can barely contain my rage as I wrap a towel around my body and step back into my bedroom.
As I head towards the bed to turn on the bedside light, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye, over where my reading nook is, causing me to release an embarrassingly girly scream.
I’m already on edge from everything that has happened tonight. One more scare may cause a friggin heart attack.
Before I can throw my bedside lamp as a substitute weapon to whatever deranged fuck decided to break into my bedroom, the light by the reading nook is turned on. Sitting in the chair, looking cool as a cucumber, and acting as if he owns the place, is Barrett fucking Belmont.
Yes ok, I admit, I am a tad hysterical right now.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I snap out at Barrett, still refusing to lower my makeshift weapon. After all, the last time Barrett came anywhere near me, I found myself locked in a shed for several hours. Call me paranoid, but I just don’t trust him.
He gives me a slow once over, his eyes heating with lust as he takes in my current attire.
Ah, yes, I’d forgotten I’m only dressed in a towel, since I wasn’t expecting any unwanted visitors this evening.
Setting my lamp back where it belongs, I move to my wardrobe where I’m out of sight and I put on a tank top and leggings, feeling less exposed and vulnerable. Once dressed, I head back into the bedroom, ensuring there is plenty of space between the two of us. I glare daggers at Barrett, letting him know I haven’t forgotten I asked him a question, which he hasn’t answered yet.
He slowly gets up from the armchair, looking like a fucking wet dream, and stalks across the room towards me like he’s hunting prey.
With every step he takes closer to me, my brain seems to short-circuit, taking with it any common sense I have. It’s the only reason I can think of as to why I let him do what he does. Once I’m within touching distance he slowly lifts his arm, stretching his hand out towards me, giving me time to tell him to stop, but I don’t. He gently strokes the tip of his fingers over the faint bruises on my upper arm, massaging the skin. I just watch him, shivering at his touch, as his soft caresses replace the brute force which was applied to mark my skin.
“I needed to see if you were ok,” he murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.
Not knowing what to say, I continue to stand and stare at him, taking him in, as he slowly trails his hand down my arm towards my wrist. His eyes narrow as he notices the fingerprint-shaped bruises starting to emerge there too, moving his fingers to gently massage the discoloured skin.
“Has he hurt you before?” He growls out softly, still keeping his gaze on the bruises at my wrist while his fingers continue their soothing motion, like he can’t bear to look away from the damage until he’s healed it.
Still in mute mode, all I can do is shake my head in response.
“You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone,” he promises, not believing me. Why should he? If he wasn’t aware before, the display of aggression he saw tonight would clue him in to the type of man my father is.
Coughing to clear my throat so my voice comes out strong, not wanting to show him any weakness or let him see my fear, “I’m fine Barrett. I can take care of myself.”
At my remark, he quickly snaps his eyes up to mine, narrowing them as his anger focuses on me now. Stupid testosterone-filled male thinking a mere woman can’t handle herself.
A growl escapes from his throat before he can control himself.
“I know you can take care of yourself. I’ve fucking watched you strutting around, thriving in this hellhole, like it's a walk in the fucking park,” he snaps out, “but whether you know it or not, your father isn’t a good man. He may be capable of more than either of us know.”
Yeah no shit, he’s capable of murder. Not that I’m about to tell Barrett that.