Blue balloon is tired,a voice in my head whispered.
Shut up.
I peeled the dress off and let it slide to the floor, then kicked it aside.
From the corner of my eye, I saw my own reflection in the mirror and almost laughed. I looked like a backup dancer in a porn music video.
Valmont uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Dance for me."
I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to hit him so hard his teeth left a mark on my knuckles.
Not yet, Kimmy. Not until there's enough footage to destroy this disgusting human being once and for all.
I moved, slow and liquid, the way Brynn always moved when she wanted to make a man crazy. I swayed, rolled my hips, ran my hands up my thighs. I bit my lip and pretended I was on the set of a movie playing a woman who thought he was the only man in the world.
He didn't blink. Not once.
I moved closer, one step at a time.
When I got within arm's reach, he grabbed my wrist. Hard. His grip was absolute. A surge of memories pushed their way forward. I remembered how he held me down as he raped me. I remembered how I hurt the next morning and every day after that for the past three years.
Fury rose up from within me. Fury I'd never felt before. At that moment, I was convinced that if I got my hands on his throat and ended up strangling him to death, I wouldn't lose a single second of sleep over his end. Even in prison.
He ran his thumb over my pulse. "What's your name?" he asked as I pushed down that insistent gag reflex.
"Carla."
"No. Your name is Princess," he said. Then, "Do you know what happens to girls who don't pay attention?"
Blue balloon is tired.
I met his gaze, recapping the various scripts Seven had given me regarding Valmont's preferences. "I don't. Will you show me?"
"That's right," he hissed out. "They get punished. If they're lucky."
I nodded, as if this was the world's most reasonable thing.
He stood, and I felt his shadow roll over me. He was only a few inches taller, but he wasn't a weak man. I remembered it all too well. There was something uneasy in the way he moved—no wasted motion, every step balanced.
He went to the shelf, picked up a leather whip.
Not the worst thing in the world, I thought to myself.Blue balloon is tired.
He swished it through the air, testing its weight.
"Turn around," he ordered.
I did.
He tapped the whip against the back of my thigh, gentle at first, then harder. I let my body react the way I thought he wanted—just a twitch, just a flinch.
He smiled. "Perfect."
He circled, moving behind me, then in front. "So you say you worked for Mr. H before?"
"He told me I'd be your type."
He laughed at that, a dry, hollow sound. "I hope he's not wrong. But it's yet to be determined."
