Page 132 of Wicked Brutal

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

His fingers tighten. “Properly.”

My voice shakes. “I understand, sir.”

“Good.” He finally looks down at where he’s holding me. For one stupid second, I think he’s going to let go. He doesn’t. His thumb presses deliberately into the tender flesh, and pain shoots through my arm.

I flinch. “That hurts.”

“I know.” The words are quiet. Matter-of-fact. My stomach drops. “Maybe you’ll remember it the next time you decide to test how much Victor enjoys your attitude.”

Only then does he release me. My arm immediately throbs with my heartbeat.

He studies my face next. I know what he’s looking for. Evidence. Not whether he hurt me. Whether anyone else will be able to tell. His fingers catch my chin and turn my face toward the light. I go completely still. The humiliation is almost worse than the slap. He checks one cheek. Then the other.

Apparently satisfied, he lets go. “Fix your makeup. Then come back to the table and give Victor the attention he deserves.”

My throat aches. “Yes, Father.”

He reaches for the door. Then stops. “And Alison?” I look at him. “Don’t make me correct you twice.”

“No, sir.”

He opens the door, checks the corridor, and walks out as calmly as he walked into the restaurant.

I stay inside the coat closet. Five seconds. Maybe ten. My arm is fucking screaming. I don’t need to pull up the sleeve to know what’s going to happen beneath it. I can still feel every one of his fingers. Five separate points of pain already spreading deeper. Bruises.

Ryan is going to see them. The thought hits so hard that fresh tears fill my eyes. Not because I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me. Because I know exactly what his face is going to look like when he realizes who did it.

And I have to sit beside Victor for the rest of this fucking lunch pretending nothing happened.

The town car feels twice as large without Dad and Victor in it.

By the time we leave the restaurant, Victor is already on another call, and Dad spends most of the elevator ride looking at his phone. Two cars are waiting outside the hotel when we step onto the sidewalk — one to take me home and another to take them directly to the airport. Apparently lunch was only one item on their schedule.

Victor stands beside the open door of my car with one hand around my waist. “I enjoyed today.”

“So did I.”

“I knew you would.” His fingers tighten slightly against my side before he bends and kisses me. I let him. Dad is standing five feet away. The driver is standing five feet away. And even if neither of them were there, I know better now. Victor takes his time. His mouth moves against mine while his hand slides higher along my back, holding me close enough that his cologne fills every breath. I count. One. Two. Three.

When he finally pulls away, he looks pleased. “I’ll call you this week.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll have those planners sent over tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “You’re welcome.” Then he kisses my forehead. “Be good for your mother.”

“I will.”

“Good girl.”

My stomach turns.