That mouth.
Soft, flushed, and bitten raw by her own teeth. I want to touch them. To stop her from chewing them and to make her answer me instead.
She should speak up on her own.
So I wait.
“But I wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for all of you. I know you’re trying to help, but come on? GHB? Seriously? Why can’t you smuggle us out. Why allow this to happen to us if you’re a good person?—”
Well, she definitely has me wrong then. I’m not a good person. Yes, it’s beneficial for them to have a way out, but I’ve become numb to ethical conduct. Some may say I’m worse in that aspect because I’m using girls who are already being used.
Smuggling girls out solves nothing—they’d only get more. Then they’d hunt down anyone who could expose them. No. True reform won’t happen until changes are made from the inside.
I shake my head as she continues to probe me.
“—or you can go to law enforcement for help. Other politicians. The media.”
Again, I shake my head. She misunderstands.
Thea crosses her arms over herself and huffs. “Ugh. I wish you’d open your damn mouth!”
The words tumble out fast, and so unlike her. The tone betrays her, too, and she slaps a hand over her mouth. Her body jerks back, eyes wide and startled. Perhaps also panicked, expecting me to strike her, or, in her world, worse, turn around and deliver her right back.
I’m not sure what rattles me more. What she said … or how terrified she looks for saying it. But I realize the fear might come from her belief that speaking her mind could cost her something she can’t afford to lose—and I can’t help but wonder what, or who, made her believe that.
The corner of my mouth twitches. She wishes I’d speak with her. Well, she doesn’t realize how much she challenges my resolve to stay quiet. Though if my silence helps her find her voice, I’d say it’s worth it.
It takes another six minutes to pass through the gates of my lakefront property, and Thea stays quiet the rest of the way. When we pull up to the front door, my driver opens the door for us, and we both climb out. Edmond isn’t here to greet us, not that he does when I arrive most days, but I know tonight in particular he’s dealing with the other girl.
I need him. I’m not sure where to put Thea now that both girls are here.
“Now what?” Thea asks, looking at me staring at the front door. I hadn’t realized my thoughts paralyzed me.
Opening the door, I hold it for her, and she shuffles in, eyes downcast on the floor. Voices coming from off in the kitchen make her perk up, and hesitantly, she leans toward them. Hand outstretched, I gesture for her to head down the hallway. She goes, adjusting her too-tight skirt. It clings to her as though she’s been sewn into it.
Her hips sway, subtle and unintentional, yet I track each shift like a starving man before I can stop it. It’s been too long. Years. Yes, that’s it.
I don’t want to look at her the waytheydo and reduce her to a body in motion. But as I think that, the molded fabric rides higher on her thighs as she walks. The hypnotic image fixes itself in my mind despite my effort to blot it out. I know this view will haunt me tonight.
I swallow.
She slows down before the threshold to the kitchen, and it’s then she looks over her shoulder at me, her gaze searching.
I tilt my head.Goin.
She pauses, allowing me to catch up. I nudge her in.
Edmond leans against the edge of the marble island, nursing a glass of something while Stefan, my private chef, moves around prepping food. The kitchen smells of charred rosemary and lemon zest left over from the meal Stefan must’ve prepared.
Thea inhales an audible breath, and Edmond startles, snapping his head toward the kitchen entrance and shoving his drink behind his back. I silently chuckle as he stands up straight and steps together as though he’s some sort of military man.
“Slade—I mean Congressman DuPont.” He glances at Thea, who fiddles with the sequined hem of her top. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t aware you’d have another guest tonight, sir.”
I nod, and Thea steps forward, scanning the kitchen. She left without seeing it last time. She follows the grainy white oak cabinets as they stretch to the ceiling, then dips her gaze toward the tile backsplash, the cool blues and greens catching the recessed lights above the stove.
“Wow,” she says. “This is … clean.”
Stefan snorts, keeping his focus trained on the red pepper he’s chopping. “More like a mess.”
