If I walked outside and demanded to speak to Darius, would they listen? And if they did, what the hell was I going to say? "Hey, sorry, but my mother's planning to betray you. Oh, and please don't murder my fake ex-boyfriend?"
I tugged at my neckline, shoved my sleeves up to my elbows. The thermostat read seventy-two degrees, but I was burning up. My stomach churned. My throat went dry.
My mind played out every worst-case scenario on a loop.
What if they laughed at me? What if they roughed me up for having the audacity to demand anything? That seemed unlikely, given how Darius had reacted to Peregrine's work on my face.
But what if they called him and he was furious?
What if demanding to see him earned me another punishment? Or worse—what if I told him about my mother's betrayal and he took that rage out on me?
I was still too sore for another spanking. And whatever my mother was planning to sabotage was clearly more important than me trying to run or yelling at him.
But what if I said nothing and things got worse? If she didn't vote the way he wanted, would he kill me anyway?
Was he planning to kill me after the vote regardless? I was a loose end.
He'd taken off the necklace, but that didn't mean I was safe.
The second the thought formed, I dismissed it.
I didn't know why, but deep down, I knew Darius would never truly hurt me. He'd punish me, yes. Spank me, definitely. But even when he used that belt, it was calculated. Controlled. He could have done real damage, but he didn't. He delivered the sting without breaking skin, without leaving lasting marks.
He was a sadist, not a psychopath.
I didn't think he'd kill me. But that didn't mean there wouldn't be consequences.
And the consequences of staying silent might be worse.
If his men were watching, they'd have seen my mother storm into my apartment this morning.
My mother. That was the real problem.
If I told Darius what she was planning—or what I thought she was planning—what would he do to her?
I dragged my fingers through my hair, making it even messier.
Damned if I did. Damned if I didn't.
Fuck it.
I'd rather face the consequences of my actions than live with the weight of doing nothing. At least if this blew up in my face, it would actually be my fault.
I stepped outside into the cool breeze and warm sun. I didn't see his men, but that didn't mean they weren't there.
"I need to talk to Darius!" I shouted.
A group of college students across the street stopped and stared. When I shouted again, they scattered.
Two men materialized almost instantly. Black suits. Sunglasses. One with a scar tracing his jawline.
Tall. Broad. Silent.
"I need to talk to Darius," I repeated, steadier this time.
One of them nodded and turned away, phone already at his ear. Russian poured out in clipped tones.
I went back inside.
