I wrap my arms around my legs, drawing them up and putting my forehead on my knees.
If I don’t look at him, he’ll go away. This isn’t real. Not again.
“...girl. Look at me.” His big hand goes under my chin, lifting it and forcing me to open my eyes. “Where did you just go?”
“I…” The water in the tub is already cooler and my fingertips are puckered. I just got in, right? Why is he looking at me like that?
“Your hair still needs washing,” he says disapprovingly. “We’ll do that later.” He lifts me out of the bathtub as I realize I’m shaking, and he wraps a giant terrycloth robe around me, tying the belt tightly. Seating me back on the bed, he crouches, eyeing me. “I want you to sit quietly for a moment. My housekeeper will bring you clothes. Do you understand me?”
“Aye,” I agree, brow furrowed. Why is he looking at me like that?
***
The housekeeper does come shortly after he leaves, she’s tall, silver-haired, and looks much kinder than he did.
“Hello, Miss MacTavish, I’m Eileen,” she says, smiling at me reassuringly. That doesn’t mean anything, though. The women in human trafficking can be even worse than the men. “I have some clothes for you. Can I assist you in dressing?” She puts a bundle of fabric on the bed.
“No. Thank you.” The words feel thick in my throat. It’s such a normal conversation to have when I’m a slave in this horrible man’s house. “I’ll be just fine.”
Who am I fooling? I’ll never be fine again.
***
He comes back for me later.
I’ve clumsily wrangled on the delicate underthings and the dark green sundress Eileen brought to me. She even found me a brush for my tangled hair. The sun is setting, sending bloody rays through my window and over the pristine white sheets.
“It’s time for dinner,” he says, looking me over. He’s in another suit and he looks like a wealthy businessman instead of the murderous thug that bought me last night.
Stiffening as he picks me up again, I mumble, “If you get me some crutches you won’t have to keep carrying me around like a suitcase missing a wheel.”
He ignores me, no surprise there.
It’s not like I haven’t grown up surrounded by all the beautiful things money can buy, but this place is next level.
He has a penthouse that screams rich, arrogant bastard with several glass walls, looking out over London and the River Thames. There are modern and abstract works of art on hiswalls, and I could swear I’d seen that Jackson Pollock mural in a museum in New York City. His shoes click softly on the glowing herringbone wood floors and the dining room he carries me into is long and elegant, with two massive chandeliers and a lengthy table that could seat an army. He sets me down at one end and makes the long walk over to the other side.
There’s silence as Elieen brings in a platter piled high with seafood; red lobsters, plump mussels, and crab on pasta. He takes an open bottle of wine and pours himself a glass. He doesn’t offer me one.
With each bite, I’m waiting for him to say something. Tell me what he’s going to do to me. Terrify me, dosomething. The food tastes like ash, which is a shame because I love lobster.
“What are you-”
He points his knife at me. “You do not speak unless I give you leave.” His golden-brown eyes turn dark, like a shadow over the face of the moon.
I really wish I had a glass of wine, too.
Putting his silverware down, he leans back in his high-backed chair like the grand Laird of the Manor, sipping his wine and eyeing me like I’m something he picked off Amazon on impulse and he intends to return.
“You do not have friends here,” he finally deigns to speak. “You are a prisoner. You have no rights and every time you disobey me, I will remove another privilege. Do you understand?”
I open my mouth and then shut it. Did he mean I could speak, or was this some sick test, or…?
Gesturing impatiently, he says, “You may speak.”
“Yes, I understand. May I ask a question?”
“You may.”
