No respect either.
"Why?" She snaps her tongue behind her teeth with a scoff.
I inhale through my nose to the count of four, tamp down the spike of irritation mixed with arousal that comes from being challenged by this wayward bird of a girl.
"Because I asked, and when I ask you a question, I expect an answer." I pause, my gaze drifting to her pert little nipples poking out on the pastel-blue, thigh-length cotton nightdress that she arrived in, thinking of drawing that youthful flesh between my teeth and listening to her scream for Daddy to stop. "I have no idea what your mother is like, but it can't be easy living with Hoover and Robert."
I note the slightest of winces at the sound of those names.
“You have no idea.” She mouths, eyes dropping, rolling her head on her neck before she considers me again.
The realization of how much I like her eyes on me settles deep into my belly.
I know some of what happened with her. Why she was sent here to me.
George Makefield, her intended husband, is five years my senior. He was a rival of my fucking father’s and an ugly fucker to boot.
I haven’t killed in years, but the realization that I will again hits me like a sledgehammer to my chest.
"Yellow," she snaps, looking away, taking another sip of water.
My fingers flex against my thighs.
They itch to stroke the waves of her black hair, her too-pale cheek, to reward her for obeying and being a good girl. The urge is so strong I dig my nails into my palms.
"Lemon yellow? Mustard yellow—?" I want to know more. I want the tiniest of details about her.
"I have no clue." She snorts, but I see the scared little girl behind the sharp edges. It's not me she's angry with. "I had a yellow crayon. I stole it from one of the staff that had grandchildren. I was not allowed things as common as crayons. Or anything else that was fun. But it’s still my favorite color."
My chest goes tight, lungs burning.
The rage that sweeps through me is unexpected, hot, and vicious, tightening every muscle until I'm rigid in my chair.
What kind of childhood did Hoover's household give her?
And why the fuck do I care?
She's a job. A paycheck, I have to keep reminding myself.
I'm not supposed to want to burn down my brother’s estate with him inside it for stealing her childhood.
"Describe it to me," I say, my better judgment overwritten by this dangerous new desire to know everything about her.
She chuckles. "My crayon?"
"Your favorite shade of yellow." I keep my voice patient, even though my pulse is kicking up. "Tell me something that's the same color."
She hesitates, and for the first time, I see something that might be embarrassment in eyes the color of sapphires.
"Larissa, I asked you a question."
"Belle's dress in Beauty and the Beast." She scowls, her cheeks reddening as she turns her eyes away. “Okay? Happy now? You got me to admit some little girl fantasy, you feel more powerful now?”
Fuck me.
My cock pulses, precum leaking into my briefs.
Heat crawls up my spine, spreading through my shoulders, making my fingers itch to grab her chin and force her to look at me while I explain in explicit detail exactly how this particular fairy tale is going to end. I fight the urge to reach out, turn her over, and run my hand over that tight teenage backside, pulling at the cheeks, then turning them red with my handprint.
