She searches my face. “Have you always done this line of work?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in the Mafia and it’s expected of me.”
Her nose wrinkles, and somehow, she appears even more innocent. “Do you always do what is expected of you?”
“Only when I want to survive.”
“I’d rather thrive than merely survive.” She shrugs. And her words dance in my mind. I’ve never heard of anything so obtuse in my entire life.
The tension in my muscles prevents me from dragging her over the table and showing her how some of us are forced to comply, never having had the option of thriving. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of a choice.”
Her bold glare drills into me. “Nobody forced you to comply with a kidnapping and to fuck your captive.”
I lean over the table. “And nobody forced you to open your legs and offer yourself up to your captor,” I snipe back, and relish the way her small frame jolts and her eyes widen.
“We all do things necessary to survive, Hevan.” The spite in my tone is clear. Who the fuck does she think she is, coming in here, acting like any of us have choices? Our world is completely different from the one she’s been brought up in. “Don’t fucking diminish one’s behavior in order to survive.”
She swallows, her eyes well with tears, and my jaw tics at the prospect of her crying. “And don’t fucking cry. I’ve given you no reason to.” I slam my fist on the table. She averts her gaze while I continue glaring in her direction, pissed at her response.
Her eyes are softer than before when they return to me, and I don’t know what I despise more, her hatred or her tenderness. The two are a complete contrast, yet annoyingly part of her, part of what I appear to obsess over.
“When will you release me?” she whispers.
“When I’ve finished with you,” I state, then continue eating my meal, feeling her eyes on me all the while.
“Will you send me to one of your clubs when you’re done with me?”
Slowly, I cast my eyes up to hers, and she holds my focus, causing my heart to beat erratically. Why the hell does she bring out these bizarre feelings from inside me?
Jesus, I want to punish her for it. Fuck, do I want to punish her. Until she screams and begs me to fuck her, proving that she wants me and she’s not being forced; she only wants me to fuck her, opinions be damned.
“My father likes to fuck my toys when I’ve finished with them. Perhaps I’ll send you to him first.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them, and the way her expression turns to hurt has my stomach churning in a peculiar sensation I’ve not felt in a long time.
Guilt.
I clear my throat. “I’ll see about having some books ordered for you,” I say in a desperate attempt to pacify her.
Her slender shoulders relax, and I long to stroke her silky hair to soothe her. Instead, I drag a finger over my lip and take the opportunity to ask her the questions that have been whirling around in my head since the moment I discovered her virginity was on my cock.
“How did you end up at the whorehouse?”
She huffs, then turns her head to give me her full attention. “I was walking back to my dorm with my boyfriend, and the next thing I know, I’m waking in the basement of your hellhole with a sting in my neck and a sore head.”
A red haze passes over me, and for a fleeting moment, I’m paralyzed.
Did she say boyfriend?
“You look like you’re about to explode.” She tilts her head from side to side.
Did she have feelings for him? Did he touch her bare skin? Mark her as his? Taste her lips before me? “Azrael, are you okay?” The concern lacing her voice has my attention snapping to her, and I give my head a shake.
“What’s his name?”
Her eyebrows draw together. “Who?”
