What would sex with Patrick be like? He’s a broad man, but I don’t know if that equates to being large all over.
Would he be demanding? Tender? No, I don’t think he’s the tender type. He’s more the rough and dominant kind of man who does whatever he wants without worry of consequence. He proved that already when he traded me for money.
Shaking my head, I try to push those thoughts aside. Why am I thinking things like that? I don’t want to have sex with him. I don’t want to be his prisoner. The only thing that’s happened today is that I got moved from one jail cell to another. At least this one is an upgrade. I’ll no longer have to deal with my father’s men leering at me.
The urge to pee becomes pressing, and if I don’t move soon, I’m going to soil this beautiful bed. As quietly as possible, I make my way to the ensuite bathroom. After I lock the door behind me, I huff out a deep breath and rush to the toilet, barely getting my leggings down before my bladder lets go.
Holy crap. I can hardly believe my eyes as I look around. Who needs a pool when you have a bathtub the size of one? I only had a crummy shower stall in the bathroom at my father’s. I hated it. All I ever wanted was a tub to soak under a mountain of bubbles and foam.
I glance at the locked door. Do I have time before he gets home? It’s probably a bad idea. What I need to do is go find some cleaning supplies. That way, if he gets home and everything is pristinely clean, he might decide to let me be his maid to work off the debt.
As I wash my hands, I peer at myself in the mirror and gasp. Oh my gosh. I look horrid. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my reflection. At some point, I just stopped looking at myself because every time I did, the deterioration was obvious.
Unable to stop myself, I splash cold water on my face and pinch my cheeks, trying to bring some color to them. I’ve never used makeup before, but I would kill for something to cover the dark circles framing my eyes. The gleaming white vanity has nothing but hand soap and a candle to offer. Maybe there’s something I can use in the drawers to help my appearance. Hell, I’ll even take a toothbrush as a win.
Score!
If angels could sing, they would be harmonizing perfectly right now.
Toothbrushes, toothpaste, floss, face wipes, a brand-new brush still in packaging, bandages, headache medicine, a nail kit, menstrual pads—three different kinds—facial moisturizer, a razor, tweezers.
It’s like a woman’s dream drawer. Although that means he has women here often. Right?
I don’t like that thought. Not one bit.
Stupid.
Why do I care? I’m his prisoner. I’m nothing special to him.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I grab some stuff out of the drawer and spend the next twenty minutes doing more for myself than I’ve done in years. I file my nails, pluck a few eyebrow hairs, brush my teeth and my hair, and by the time I’m done, I almost look human again. Except for the dark circles.
There’s also nothing I can do about my ragged clothes. I suppose this is going to be as good as it gets. I hope he wasn’t hoping to come back and find me looking glamorous. He saw what he was paying for when he bought me like I was a show horse or something.
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away. I’m not going to think about that. Any of it. Not my father nor Patrick. I’m going to clean. It’s one thing I know how to do, and it makes all my thoughts quiet.
As I wander through the spacious penthouse, I’m surprised by it. Thick carpets run through to the living room, giving it a warmer feel than if it were tile or marble flooring. Stainless steel appliances gleam at me when I walk into the kitchen. This place isimmaculate. Which means he surely already has a maid.
My tummy drops, and my hope of being his cleaning lady dissipates into thin air. I’m still going to give it a shot, though.
When I finally find a closet full of cleaning supplies, I get to work and let all my worries and fearful thoughts fade away.
Just as I walk into the living room, wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves up to my elbows and holding a spray bottle of cleaner in one hand, the front door opens. I gasp as Patrick walks in, his arms full of bags.
He finds me immediately, his eyebrows drawing together as he frowns.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands.
I bite my lip and look around, hoping to find a place to hide. I knew he would return at some point; I just wasn’t prepared forit. This is bad. So bad. He looks upset. Slowly, I take a step back, unable to speak.
“Shit,” he murmurs as he drops the bags. “I didn’t mean it like that, Ana. I meant, what are you doing? You should be resting.”
He takes a step toward me. I start to tremble, but as he continues to get closer, I can’t seem to move. When he’s only a couple of feet away, he reaches out and takes the spray bottle from me. I can’t find the courage to look up at him. I can barely remember to breathe right now.
“Why are you cleaning, Anastasia? Did you spill something?” he asks, bending his knees to lower himself so we’re at eye level. He doesn’t look angry. More like he’s concerned.
My mouth suddenly feels like there’s sand in it, so I shake my head. It’s better to stay silent. If I don’t speak, I won’t say anything to anger him. That’s the strategy I learned around my father to avoid his wrath.
Patrick sets the cleaner down and reaches for one of my hands. Almost as if in slow motion, he tugs on one of the yellow fingers until the glove slides off. Then he does the same to my other hand.
