“What’s your name?” I’m an idiot. He allowed me a question and I wasted it on hisname?
He takes another sip of wine, watching me. The silence stretches out again until it feels like my nerves will snap and I picture leaping onto the table, kicking the elaborate flower arrangement to the floor in a shatter of crystal and broken blooms.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“You will call me Sir,” he says coldly. “And you have no name.”
“But, you know my name-”
“Silence!” He slams his wine glass down on the table and there’s the shattered spray of crystal I’d just pictured as his glass disintegrates.
“You have no name,” he enunciates. “You have no identity other than what I assign to you. You do not speak until given permission. You do what you are told instantly, without question. Am I clear?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He rises from his chair, striding over to me and I flinch. After pausing for a moment, he slowly slides his arms under my knees and my back, lifting me easily. I’m stiff as a board as he carries me back up to my room, placing me on the bed.
“Do not move from here,” he points an imperious finger. “Eileen will be up to get you ready for bed.”
I’m such a coward. I stay right where he put me, not moving a muscle for an hour before the housekeeper comes in with an apologetic smile to help me to the bathroom. I notice that shedoesn’t call me Miss MacTavish again. She doesn’t say anything at all.
Chapter Nine
In which it’s just breakfast.
Alastair…
Pacing the length of my office, I try to control my temper.
I shouldn’t have given her any of my time. Why did I bring her down to dinner? Those huge silver-grey eyes staring at me anxiously at the other end of the table, fiddling with her fork and waiting for me to speak to her. She doesn’t deserve my time.
She’s a MacTavish. She deserves nothing.
Picking up my phone, I pull up Alec’s number. Why have I waited so long to tell him? Why didn’t I call him on the way home from that gruesome auction? Tapping my phone against my forehead, I groan.
No matter what my plans are for the girl, his will be so much worse.
Without examining why, I put my phone down and head up to bed.
Stripping down, I remember how she examined my bare chest this afternoon, her gaze traveling over my tattoos. Tracing the dagger inked on my ribs, my fingertips touch the thick scar it covers. That scar is courtesy of Cameron MacTavish.
I’ll be killing him first.
Naked in bed, I stare up at the play of shadows on the ceiling from the potted trees on my terrace. When I’d threatened to strip her and parade her in front of the household, she folded in on herself and… shut down. She simply disassociated from the moment. Her silver-gray eyes were open, but she was not there. I’d taken a warm cloth and ran it over her arms and face slowly, trying to rouse her. Her skin was pale, ashen and she’d curled up tightly, arms wrapped around her knees. When she finally came out of it, she didn’t seem to know that anything was amiss.
Whatever happened to her at twelve still owns her mental state.
I’ll have to handle her firmly, but carefully. She will not be allowed to hide inside herself.
***
“Morning, Boss.”
Callum is always annoyingly cheerful in the morning. I rise at 5 am because there’s always too much to do. He gets up at 4 am because he enjoys it. If he weren’t damn good at his job, I would have shot him by now for his exasperating good cheer.
“Morning,” I grunt. “Any response from our little photoshoot?”
