Well, the feeling is mutual. Nobody asked him to snatch me out of Senegal in the dead of night in the first place.
“Did you really kill Amadou?” I ask, turning my head but not really looking at him, thinking of the sweet fisherman who promised to sleep below in the shop when he saw how afraid I was leaving the club after hearing about the bounty Snake put on my head.
“You weren’t worried about him a few moments ago when you were begging for this dick,” he snarls, casting a dismissive look my way before standing and pulling up the jeans he didn’t even bother to take off up over his ass and zipping them closed.
“Turn over.” He snaps, grabbing the belt from the bottom of the bed.
“Man, fuck you.” I throw back, pulling my legs up tighter into my body. “What did you do to Amadou, bitch?” My tone is sharper but raw since I need water and my throat is dry as hell.
Ignoring my question, he eyes me, threading the heavy belt through the loops of the pants. “Told your ass to turn over.”
He doesn’t bother to threaten or cajole. Grabbing me, he tugs me forward, making me bend forward and starts smacking my ass hard. The way he holds me trapped, with my bottom facing out and my top half trapped under an armpit, I can do nothing but take the vicious punishment.
I lose count of how many times he spanks me. My bottom is throbbing, and my already sore sugar cake is screaming by the time he releases me.
“For lying.” He grounds out, dropping me back on the bed like a limp doll.
My chest is heaving. Dry, raw sobs wrack my trembling body. He’s never struck me. My chest hurts from trying not to scream, trying not to let him know how bruised I am down to my very soul by his treatment.
Nothing can stop the tears, though, as I take in the cold nonchalance that masks his face as he grips the wrinkled Henley in the same hand he used to punish me.
“Is this how you kept those kids in check, by beating them into submission?” I demand, turning to my side, looking at him with all the hate I can muster.
Watching me impassively, he doesn’t respond, just moves to where the splintered chair was, picking up his shoes. He pulls his Henley on, holding the boots in one hand.
Walking over to the wall, he grabs the sheet and tosses it at me. “Get up.”
Shifting, he presses something, and a door emerges. My mouth falls open. I was so close to an escape and didn’t realize it. Turning to the door, he reveals a hidden panel and completes a series of codes I can’t keep up with before a small window opens.
Leaning in, he stills for a retina scan. Steel doors — invisible until now — slide open into a darkened space.
“C’mon, Saban,” Snake commands from the darkness.
Heart tripping, I grab the thin sheet, tucking it in securely, then follow him out into the darkness. The door closes soundlessly. The moment it does, the space illuminates, revealing a hallway.
Without a word, Snake strides down the long corridor. Having no choice, I follow, walking double time to keep up with his much longer stride.
This is like some type of sci-fi nightmare type shit, I think, looking from side to side at the sleek walls, following his massive form, feeling every twinge in my sore kitty-kat and the ache of my bottom sparking with pain with every step I take.
Near the end of the corridor, he stops and does everything again. The wall slides, revealing elevator doors.
Stepping back, he waits for me to step inside.
“Where are you taking me?” Standing stock still, I hear the panic in my voice, which he ignores again, stepping inside, tugging me in beside him. He presses a button, and we ride upfast. My tummy drops, but it only lasts a second when the doors swoosh open into a living room.
As much as I have been in Angel’s loft, I immediately note the similar industrial design of the space, but this is a house, not a loft. A huge, magnificent house I never knew about. Probably something he’s had the whole time. I just never knew about it — like so many other things.
Stunned, I look at the literal palace in front of my eyes that speaks to the true wealth of the man I’ve lived with for most of my life. I realize then I don’t know him — I never did.
“Saban, come,” he snaps, heading through the massive living space of thick sofas and ottomans, then up a wide set of stairs.
Trudging behind him, I try to ignore the aches in my body. Grabbing the bannister so I don’t trip over the sheet, I trudge up the long, wide staircase behind him. Questions pound so hard in my head a migraine threatens. What is this place? Where is it? It’s obvious he has his own little secret compound. One he never thought to tell me about. Is this where he kept the people he stole? Held them here until he could sell them or worse.
Is that what those subterranean rooms are for? Were there even now people locked away in some windowless room waiting to be used like he just used me?
By the time we reach the uppermost level, I’m reeling from the horrible possibilities.
“Where are you taking me?” I stop at the top. Turning, I look down the living room, which has three seating areas, one leading out to a garden with what looks to be a terrace beyond. From this vantage point, I can see there are several paths leading away from the space below to other parts of the home’s lower level.
