Was I asking him to let me come, to give me the pleasure that his fingers were building inside of me? Was I asking him to stop so I could think clearly, or was I asking him to take that damn necklace off my neck?
I didn't know, but I did know he was the only one who could give me what I needed.
"Everything is monitored," he whispered in my ear. "Everything is a test. Now go be a good girl and do as you're told, and maybe I'll reward you."
Then he ripped his hand away from me and moved toward the bedroom door, leaving me cold and throbbing with need.
"Go home, pretend everything is normal, and wait for instructions. Be a good girl,” he reiterated, “and hope your mother doesn't get you both killed."
Then he walked out the door, closing it behind him, and I collapsed onto the carpeted floor.
It wasn't until I lifted my hand that I saw the glass that had embedded itself in my palm, and I watched the crimson red mix with the fragments of the mirror.
My reflection stared back—broken, bleeding, collared.
Still his.
CHAPTER 11
ANNA
Survive.
The word repeated in my head over and over again. It was what I said to myself when I pulled the shard of glass out of my hand and stopped the bleeding with the only thing I could find close at hand—my ruined panties.
I pressed against the wound the best I could. It was shallow but a bleeder.
Both were words my mother had used to describe me at one point or another.
In the few minutes it took for my blood to clot and the bleeding to stop, I came to some decisions about my situation.
The most important thing was getting through this, with whatever scars were necessary. My goal—my only goal—was survival.
I was going to do whatever it took to get beyond whatever this was.
Darius was temporary.
As soon as my mother gave him whatever he wanted, he would be gone, along with this massive diamond collar bomb.
Once I survived this, I was going to live my life on my terms, not the half-assed teenage rebellious bullshit that I was doing by hiding out in a record store.
I was going to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and I was going to do it. Edith, the record shop owner who was more of a mother to me than my own, would help me figure out whatever that was. She'd do it without judgment, giving me only support.
But I'd never tell her about this. She wouldn't think less of me for it but telling her would make it real. And could put her in danger. I couldn't allow that.
I tossed my ruined panties into the nearest garbage can and found my dress hanging in the closet. I stepped into it, carefully zipping it up in the back.
The fabric scraped against my raw skin, and I hissed through my teeth. Every inch of me felt bruised, used, like my body had been wrung out and hung to dry.
In the bathroom, I tended to the cut and cleaned myself up, then ran my fingers through my hair. Five minutes later, I could barely tell I was doing a walk of deep, soul-searing shame.
Though when I swallowed, my throat ached, a phantom reminder of his hand there, his control. I forced myself to look away from my reflection.
Darius's men were waiting for me in the living room in matching suits and blank stares.
"I'm ready to go home," I said.
My voice came out steadier than I expected, but my pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out everything else.
