I fell asleep. How in the hell did I manage to fall asleep knowing where I was? What awaited me?
He takes a step toward me but when I take one back, he stops. He pushes his hand through his dark hair and I get the feeling he’s rattled by something. This man is fierce. Savage. The raw rage coming off him is palpable. I wonder if this is how he experiences every emotion. Intensely. Passionately. I know being on the wrong end of that passion is lethal. And I’m there, in his sights, the object of his hate.
I want to run but there’s nowhere for me to go. The small bathroom is the size of a shower stall with barely enough room for the toilet and sink. And there’s no lock on the door. Although I know no door or lock would stop this man from advancing. I have never been around someone like him before. Never felt so much crackling, animal energy from any human being.
“It’s done,” he says, tossing the papers he’s holding onto the bed. His voice is different than it was in the chapel. Even the threat he made sounds like child’s play compared to his tone now. There’s an edge to it. Something wild. Something he is trying to rein in.
“What’s done?” I ask, glancing at the pages, noticing one has slipped off the bed and landed on the floor.
I initiate the Rite.
He can’t do that. The Rite is not something one can take. It’s given and only to a trusted friend.
He takes a breath in, shifts his gaze around the room, not bothered by the sparseness, the cold, the old. He then settles his gaze on me. The tension in his shoulders subsides a little. Hands flex then relax. My gaze falls to those hands and inevitably to the inked forearms. To the powerful muscle beneath the skin.
“You belong to me, Isabelle Bishop.”
I can’t help my quick glance to those sheets of paper on the bed, but I can’t read more than a few words from this angle. It’s written in an old, ornate script and upside down. What I do see are the words Rite and my own name.
And a signature I recognize. My brother’s.
Christian wouldn’t have allowed this to happen. He wouldn’t sign anything that would give me away.
But Christian is dead, and Carlton is a very different man than Christian was.
I don’t need to read the details to know he’s not lying. That I do belong to him. It’s how The Society works. If it had been another man, another sort of contract, it would probably be much the same albeit with less animosity. Because this man hates me. Loathes me.
“Why did you help me?” I ask before I can think about what I’m doing.
He looks confused. “What?”
“At the chapel. Why did you help me if you hate me? Why not let those men do what they wanted to do to me?”
“Ah.”
I take a step away from him and feel the wall at my back. There’s nowhere for me to go.
He sees my disadvantage. Sees he has me cornered. And like any good predator, he advances, only stopping when he’s closer than he was at the chapel. When I can almost feel the heat coming off him. The sheer power of him like waves of electric energy ready to zap me.
“Isabelle Bishop,” he says, noting the dozen hair pins I dropped on the nightstand before taking a thick lock of my hair into his hand. I’d taken it out of its chignon. It was so tight it gave me a headache. But now as I watch him, I wonder if I should have left it in that bun because he begins to twist a handful of it around his fist. I count one, two, three, four turns. My hair reaches my waist and he’ll use even that to his advantage.
I expect him to pull, to hurt me, and I brace myself.
His gaze meets mine and I study him. This close, I can see the specks of gold in his eyes, the ring of black around the gray one. He tugs my hair, holding it taut forcing my head to tilt backward.
“You weren’t his to break. You’re mine.”
I swallow as my shoulders shiver. I wrap my arms around myself, too much of me exposed in this wilting, ruined dress, too much of me left unprotected.
He unwinds my hair, knuckles purposefully grazing my bare shoulder and then sliding across to my collarbone, to the long, ugly scar there. His eyebrows furrow as he studies it, touches the scar tissue, the dark tracks of the stitches.
When his eyes meet mine again, that shiver turns into a full shudder and my chest heaves with each breath.
His gaze drops to watch the swell of my breasts.
I try not to hyperventilate while his knuckles leave a trail of goosebumps down my arm, over the crease of my elbow. He takes my hand and turns it over, brushing the backs of his fingers back and forth from wrist to elbow and back again and again and again. The sensation is sensual and utterly terrifying.
“It fits you, that scar,” he says. “Something ugly on something so very beautiful. A warning.”
I struggle to follow, but I can’t think right now. Not with the way he’s touching me.
“I plan to break you slowly, Isabelle Bishop.”
My knees wobble.
“I will enjoy every moment,” he says.
I lean against the wall for support.
“It wouldn’t do to let that boy touch you. So, I wasn’t so much helping you as I was helping myself. Making sure the goods weren’t damaged before I took possession.”
He lets my arm drop, and his gaze shifts once again to my collarbone.
“Tell me about this scar.”
“I fell.” It’s true but only half and I’m not wasting my words on him. I was pushed, took a tumble down the stairs and broke my clavicle, for starters, the night Christian was killed. I was lucky, though, because I’m sure that man would have broken much more if he wasn’t interrupted by the wail of sirens. One of our neighbors had heard my screams and called the police.
“Any other flaws you’re hiding?” he asks.
I’m not sure he’s waiting for my reply, but I shake my head anyway.
“Hm. I’ll see for myself, I think.” He takes a step back but there’s no relief when he sets one hand on the wall over my head and leans his weight into it. I note, however, that the door is still open behind him and Dex is gone. “Take off your dress, Isabelle.”
My throat goes dry, my entire body tense, nipples hard, belly doing strange flips.
“I… What?”
He grins, never once blinking and I wonder about the mask he’d worn earlier. How I’d thought him some sort of beast. A devil. I wonder if he’s those things now. Not human at all.
“Undress and show me your scars,” he says.
I hug myself tight, glance over his shoulder. See the obstacle of my discarded heels at the foot of the rickety old bed.
He’s watching me when I return my eyes to his and when I lick my lips to speak, his gaze falls to them. I see desire in his eyes, and I think about all the women at the masquerade ball. So many who are so much more beautiful than me. More elegant than me. More Society than me. And I wonder why he chose me. What he’d want with someone like me.
“Isabelle.”
I blink, glance again at the open door before returning my eyes to his.
“Do you want to run for it?” he asks as if he’s just noted my interest in that exit.
I don’t answer. He’s playing with me.
“Freedom is just a few feet away.” He smiles wide and steps aside. “You’re considering it. I would too.” He extends his arm, gesturing to the door. “You can try, I suppose. You won’t get far, but you can try.”