When my hands can’t seem to stop fidgeting, I sit on them.
Edmond leans down, his body stiff, and he sets a small vial of clear liquid next to the paper. Huh.
Curious, I reach for it.
A hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, and I jump, looking to Edmond. The grip is rough and not gentle, but not cruel either. Firm enough to stop me. But it isn’t Edmond’s hand. No, he’s standing wide-eyed on my left side, watching the person on my right. Congressman DuPont.
The pads of his fingers are unexpectedly warm and smooth against my rapid pulse. It’s jarring—how someone built to bruise can still touch like that, like maybe they’re trying not to …
When I look up at him, his stare barrels into me before he rips his hand away.
“Oh, yes. Don’t touch that.” Edmond adds that caveat to the tension beading in the room. He clears his throat. “Uh, Congressman DuPont, is there something you need? I was about to summon Thea’s meal. I will have yours sent up per usual.”
I shrink back in my chair to avoid the congressman’s scrutiny and test my tongue against the roof of my dry mouth. It would be nice if I could drink something. Which leads to the question: What is in the tiny vial if not water?
My stomach grumbles at the mention of a meal, but then nausea takes its place when I remember my night to come. Withhim.
The congressman steps back, his gaze resting on Edmond’s. But instead of turning to exit the room, he stalks over to the head of the table and pulls out a chair.
Edmond stutters. “I, uh … Sir?”
DuPont plops down, spine straight, legs spread. He props an elbow on the armrest and curls his fingers under his jaw. His expression is sharp, unreadable for the most part, but when he reaches up to adjust his glasses, a flicker of something raw passes over his face. His brows dip enough to hint he’s perplexed. At his own behavior?
Edmond sighs. “I’ll get dinner then.” He struts out of the room, glancing back to give the congressman a questioning look before he rounds the doorway out of sight.
I peer at the liquid in front of me, unable to help myself. Out of the corner of my vision, the congressman leers at me. He sits back, slouching a bit, like he’s growing accustomed to that seat.
When he doesn’t look away, when he doesn’t let up with the unrelenting taunting, my skin prickles. Every second drags on longer than the last, and as I try to ignore it, my jaw fuses tighter and tighter. Finally, I snap, voice sharper than I mean it to be.
“What are you going to do to me?” The words explode out of me, trailed by a bubbling hiccup and brimming tears. “Please. Please let me go.”
He watches as I bring my hands up and fiddle with the sheet of paper, and he takes a long breath. The frames on the bridge of his nose hitch upward as he contorts his face at the single tear dripping along my cheek. He looks both thoughtful and vaguely annoyed by it, which threatens to undo me further.
Did he not think that women forced to service him would cry and beg to be let go? Because I can’t be the only one. If I weren’t so terrified of being shipped off out of the country, I’d … I don’t know, do something.
Ha. I internally snort. Who am I kidding? I’m not that kind of person. I couldn’t stand up to Phil when my mother needed someone in her corner. Or tell Tristan I’m not on the same page as he is. What makes me think I can stand up to four grown males intent on keeping me trapped in this house for twelve hours?
I wipe at my rolling tears with the oversized jacket still wrapped around me, and I can’t help but be grateful for it. As I tuck into it, pulling it tighter around myself like a flimsy barrier between my bare skin and the over-air-conditioned room, a low, gravel-edged sound rumbles from farther down the table. It’s not loud, virtually a sigh, and half restrained at that. Perhaps he’s just clearing his throat.
He hasn’t said a word to me. Actually, he hasn’t said a word to anyone in this house. Back at the club, to the bidding—no words there either.
Is he deaf? I rack my brain for any bit of ASL from the class I took in high school. Then I remember—there wasn’t an interpreter at the Market. Even while I stood on that stage, utterly overwhelmed and blinded by the harsh lights in my face—I remember that. I’m not sure what he’s getting all huffy and puffy for. All I want to do is fold this paper into a nice little half sheet and swipe it across his neck and hope for the best. Except I could never. I wish I could do something defensive, daring. I mean, I wouldn’t want to slit just anyone’s throat, but his …
The point is … if I were braver, I’d attempt an escape.
A cart squeaking against the floorboards wheels into the room with Edmond pushing a raised handle behind it. Utensils shift and plates rattle as the metal cart cuts the awkward silence in the room.
Steam curls off a pair of heavy ceramic plates, each holding a thick, juice-soaked rib eye steak. It’s served with buttery mashed potatoes and sauteed garlic green beans—I can smell them from here.
Oh my gosh. My mouth opens as Edmond picks up a plate and slides it in front of me. I haven’t eaten proper food in over a week. Beef, nope. And forget mashed potatoes. Saliva, as gross as it is, pools in my mouth, over my tongue.
Edmond places the congressman’s plate in front of him and asks again, “Are you sure you don’t want to take your meal in your room, sir?”
The congressman leans back, offering a glare.
They stare at one another.
I take his silence as a no, but Edmond seems intent on double-checking. Is it not normal for him to eat in the dining room?
