Think differently.
My instinct is to run, but that’s not what I need to do. He wants me because I’m a spitfire, and he would enjoy breaking me.
I won’t let him win.
I need to be different.
I need to pretend I’m into him. That I want him to fuck me. That I’ve been so desperate for male attention, I’d even fuck a man like him. It’s going to suck, but it might be the only way for freedom. I can pretend. That’s all this is, pretend.
I took acting classes in high school. I was good. I can do this.
“You have a beautiful home, Mr. Russo.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Thank you, whore. It doesn’t have the views you are used to, but then again, you haven’t lived in a home like this for several weeks now. I’m sure you are aching to know what it feels like again.”
He strokes my face, and I do everything I can to not react negatively to his touch. I don’t miss the double meaning of his words. He doesn’t think a man has touched me in weeks. He’s right. I need to let him know just how right he is.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, my eyes meeting his, challenging him to call me out on my words.
He smirks, pleased with my response.
So I continue. “You’re right. I haven’t been with a man in months. I thought Roman was the one. I thought he loved me and wanted me. I was wrong. Roman is half the man you are.”
Dante doesn’t respond. His eyes deepen though at my words. He grabs my wrists, bound with rope behind my back. He spins me until my back is to him.
I resist the urge to glance back at him. I need to show him I trust him with my body.
So instead, I focus on studying my surroundings, but it’s impossible with him breathing down the back of my neck again.
I feel something sharp and cold against my wrists.
Shit.
He’s going to cut me. I should never have turned my back to him.
My breath catches as he cuts the rope from my wrists. My hands pull apart, and I rub them gingerly, examining the red bumps and abrasions which have formed a perfect circle where the rope used to be.
I turn slowly, trying to show appreciation in my eyes, as I look at Dante.
“Thank you.”
He stowes the knife in his back pocket. I try not to look too eager to know where he hides a weapon. As much as I want to go over to him now and steal the knife, I won’t. It would be easy enough to distract him with a kiss while retrieving it from his pocket. I resist. It won’t get me anywhere. Even if I killed him, his men would attack me. I would never get out alive. And if I missed, I would have to deal with his wrath. I would have played my cards too early.
No, I need to wait. Have patience. Get him to trust me and let his guard down.
“This way, whore,” he says, snapping his fingers.
I follow, still getting used to having my hands free again. When I catch up to him, I hook one of my hands around his arm.
His lips curl up a little, but otherwise, he doesn’t react. I’m used to hanging onto men I don’t have feelings for. I’ve played the interested, hot woman too many times for my father or brothers. I know how to distract men.
And I do just that as Dante leads me around his house, showing off various pieces of art or views he thinks are impressive. They aren’t. Nothing in this house is remarkable.
“I have one more room to show you. I think it will be your favorite,” he says, his voice deeper than it’s been.
I know what room he is talking about. A bedroom. I know what’s coming. Dante isn’t a patient man. He wants what he paid for. He wants to fuck me. This is the moment that will define our relationship. I need to jump on him, seem needy and wanting before he has a chance to rape me. I need to be the one to initiate the sex. Even if it destroys me to pretend.