The Pawn (Endgame 1)

Holy shit. A million dollars.

We head the other direction, toward the front door. I cringe as the door opens, revealing slick pavement and a driver standing beside a limo. By luck or by design, there’s no one else on the street.

I take one step over the threshold and then shriek as my entire body is lifted into the air. My bare feet never touch the wet concrete. I’m sideways in Gabriel’s arms, the jacket askew, hopelessly revealed for anyone to see. I only catch a glimpse of the valet averting his eyes before I’m tossed unceremoniously onto the leather seats. Gabriel steps inside after me. The limo glides forward.Chapter FifteenAs armor goes, the suit jacket leaves a lot to be desired. It has beautiful stitching, expensive fabrics, but it’s tailored to fit a man much larger than me. And it has the musky scent of him, a constant reminder that we’re both possessions. Soon I’ll smell like him too.

He deposits me in a room as easily as he might sling his jacket over the chair. It’s a strange room but a comfortable one. A deep-set wraparound couch fills most of the space, the pillows covered with canvas that has sketches of random objects—an antique typewriter, an old-looking telescope. One wall has exposed brick, not the industrial red brick of Justin’s loft, but a beige and brown mosaic that feels almost soft. A large burnished iron chandelier casts yellow light on the dark wooden beams that crisscross the white ceiling.

On a small end table there’s a shiny silver phone with a circle for numbers. I wonder if it’s functional. And if it is, I should probably call home and make sure a nurse is actually with my father.

Then again, I already did our evening routine before I left for the auction. I might use the time better by taking a drink from the bar setup with a copper rolling cart. How hard will this be? How much will it hurt? Judging by the way he cornered my body against the wall in the Den, estimating the size of his body relative to mine, quite a lot. Something amber-colored or even clear ought to fortify me.

Then the door opens, and Gabriel stalks inside. He reclines on the corner of the large sectional, one leg slung over the other, his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing deeply tanned forearms. He isn’t a man who gives orders from the comfort of an air-conditioned penthouse office.

“Getting comfortable?” he asks, his expression unreadable.

“Should I be?”

“You’ll be here for a month,” he says, which doesn’t really answer the question.

“In this room?” I ask, keeping my tone bland. Like his. “In this suit jacket? Or will there be a bed and clothes at some point?”

“God, your tongue,” he says with a groan that reverberates through my body. “We’re going to have so much fun, your tongue and I.”

That sounds ominous, but of course it does. Everything he says is designed to scare me. Everything he does is designed to knock me down. That’s part of the push and pull that Candy warned me about, but that doesn’t make it any less real. That doesn’t make it any less terrifying. How did she remain so calm in the face of this? How was her expression so serene curled up in the arms of a killer? She’s a puzzle I haven’t figured out, and it feels somehow imperative that I do.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “You know just enough to be scared, don’t you?”

I shake my head because I don’t know anything. I’ve heard about blowjobs and sex. Harper’s even told me about anal sex, how two men can have you at the same time. It’s not his sex that scares me—it’s power. What will Gabriel Miller do to me tonight? Will he rip away the jacket and throw me to the floor? Will he thrust inside me, fast and hard and merciless?

He looks considering. “I could tell you there’s pleasure too, but that wouldn’t help you, would it?”

“That scares me too,” I whisper. It actually scares me worse, because pain would be easy to hate. Pleasure is a strange concept to a girl who’s lost everything, far too tempting.

He nods, gesturing to the floor at his feet. “We won’t start there. Not for you. Kneel, little virgin. There’s something you need to learn.”

I almost don’t make it across the two feet of deep shaggy rug. My knees buckle when I’m in front of him, folding my body like an accordion. Then I’m shivering in front of him, wrapped up in Italian fabric, a package waiting to be torn open.

His touch is achingly gentle—a single finger, the blunt of it on my collarbone. Only that, and my skin tightens beneath his touch. Fighting him? Welcoming him? I don’t know, but when he trails his finger lower, pushing the suit lapel aside, I go cold. My hands unclench in degrees, allowing him to pull the suit jacket open.