Rico nods once in full understanding.
My nails dig into my palms, but I’m numb to the pain. “I won’t do it.”
Moseley grins. “Oh, you will,” he says softly. “Because the alternative is far worse for you.”
Rico steps closer again, crowding my space, making me feel too uncomfortable. I flinch before I can stop myself, already fearing what comes next.
Moseley notices it, but ignores it, returning to the conversation like he’s in the middle of a business meeting,and not selling my body to the highest bidder. “We’ll revisit this after the holidays,” he says calmly. “Enjoy Thanksgiving and Christmas while you can. I’m especially looking forward to another one of those warm apple pies. I hope to find one underneath my tree and next to my turkey this year.”
My chest tightens.
“After the new year,” he finishes, “things will change.”
He and Rico share a look before Rico opens the door, the hinges squealing in protest.
“Take her back to her shop,” Moseley orders. “But try not to manhandle her like you did earlier; she’s already starting to bruise.”
Rico’s hand closes around my elbow, and it’s far from gentle. “Get up!” he orders, his mouth clenching with hate.
“Make sure you enjoy the holidays with what little time you have left, Ms. St. John; this may be the last one you ever enjoy.”
Rico angrily leads me out the door, leaning down only when Moseley can’t hear us anymore, his mouth too close to my ear. “You should’ve been nicer,” he whispers. “I don’t like it when women fight me.”
“Well, you should get used to it. Because I’m not the type of woman who goes down without a fight.”
“Then I hope you appreciate your knees while you still have them, because if you defy me again, I’ll break both of your kneecaps and feed you my dick while you cry out in pain.”
I don’t respond.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He throws me outside like some waif he’s discarding into the gutter, the cold air hitting my face like the slap he inflicted earlier. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he mutters, already turning away like I’m nothing more than an errand he’s completed. “Submit like a good girl, and I’ll spare your life.”
The two goons at the door chuckle as the door shuts behind me with a dull, painful thud.
For half a second, I just stand there.
Breathing.
Shaking.
Doing my best to convince my legs they still belong to me even though I can barely feel them.
I take a few steps before the world tilts, knees buckling beneath me as I stumble to the ground, knees hitting the pavement right outside the bakery’s window, the smell of sugar and cinnamon battling me like weapons instead of tantalizing my senses.
My breath rushes out of me in a sharp, humiliating gasp.
“Mindy!” Amber’s voice slices through the haze seconds after the door flies open behind me, the overhead bells jangling violently as she rushes out, dropping to my side.
“Oh my god, Mindy, what happened?” She helps me to my feet, her hands already assessing the bruises on my throat and face. “What did that bastard do to you?”
“I—I’m okay,” I lie, even though my throat burns and my hands won’t stop shaking.
Amber’s eyes flick up instinctively, focusing on the picnic table across the street. The one where Krampus has been sitting every day, watching and waiting for something to happen.
But for some odd reason, it’s empty.
My chest tightens painfully.
