Knowing if I belonged to a monster doesn’t change anything. All it does is make it worse.
“The pictures in his stash kind of told me a fuck of a lot.”
Pictures? Fuck.“What pictures?”
Does he mean the ones on the website?From the way he’s looking at me, there’s little point praying he didn’t see those. It looks like he’s checked me out so he would have. Robert took those pictures.
Eric said stash of pictures. There isn’t supposed to be any stash.
“The ones of you and him. There were videos too.”
My eyes fly open. I wasn’t aware of anything like that, and I realize with horror of what that bastard did. There are no cameras at Club Montage but he must have found a way to take pictures and recordings of him and me together.
Eric’s looking at me like I’m a whore and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
I’m not.
Fuck knows what he must have seen. The fucking images on the stupid website were enough. There’s no telling what Robert recorded.
“I’m not a whore,” I mutter, as if it matters.
“Maybe not, you were certainly owned by the devil though. Didn’t look like you minded being owned either.”
Rage consumes me from the sting of his words. When I think of everything that sent me to Club Montage and why I literally had to have hit rock bottom to choose to sell my soul, I hardly have time to process I’m angry before I react. I raise my hand and land it across his cheek hitting him so hard I split the side of his lip.
The moment my fingers connect with the scruff of his beard the weight of the mistake I just made falls on me like a block of buildings.
I push to my feet quickly and study him.
When he calmly picks up a napkin, dabs at the side of my mouth and looks at the dark red blood on staining the napkin I know he’s furious.
This was the second thing he warned me about. When he stands and somehow seems taller and his face is void of even the anger I know he must feel, the only thing I can do is get away from him.